I DECIDED TO SAVE A PREGNANT GIANTESS I FOUND ON THE ISLAND. 7 DAYS LATER

The first day on that forsaken island arrived wrapped in a silence so absolute it felt like the world had forgotten how to breathe.I was convinced I was utterly alone.I told myself this was merely a test of survival—a dramatic tale I would one day recount beside a fire, half-laughing at my own exaggerated memories.But no preparation, no whispered warning from the wind or the waves, could have readied me for what the third dawn unveiled.There, sprawled among the black volcanic rocks like a shipwrecked deity the ocean had finally surrendered, lay her.A giantess.Her skin shimmered with the faint luminescence of tide-kissed sand at first light. Her hair spilled across the shore in a molten cascade of gold, snarled with driftwood, seaweed, and broken coral like the aftermath of a goddess’s shipwreck. What remained of her tunic—once a deep cerulean embroidered with constellations of sea stars—hung in ragged ribbons across her colossal form.And most impossible of all: she was heavily, unmistakably pregnant.She must have stood ten meters tall when upright.
Yet now she lay broken and small against the indifferent stone, each shallow breath rattling like distant surf inside a cavern.I approached on trembling legs.“Are you… alive?” My voice cracked, barely louder than the hiss of retreating foam.Her eyelids fluttered.Then those eyes opened.Enormous.
The blue of the deepest trench where light still dares to linger. Ancient. Gentle. Sorrowful in a way no human grief could ever touch.They found me—tiny, insignificant, ridiculous—and something in my chest cracked open like dry earth after the first rain.“Water…” she breathed.The word rolled through the air like the low, mournful note of a whale song felt more than heard.I sprinted barefoot along the jagged shore, heart hammering, until I found a cluster of young coconuts still clinging stubbornly to their palms. I hacked them open with a stone, hands bleeding, and carried them back one by one like sacred offerings.When the first sweet liquid touched her lips, color returned to her cheeks in slow, hesitant waves. Each swallow seemed to coax another heartbeat from the child she carried.For hours I worked without pause: untangling the golden river of her hair from thorns and branches, smoothing hot sand into a softer bed beneath her aching back, dragging enormous palm fronds to fashion shade against the merciless equatorial sun.I spoke to her in soft, foolish sentences—about the stars I’d seen last night, about the way the tide sounded different here than anywhere else, about how small I suddenly felt in the best possible way.And sometimes—when the pain made her flinch and her hand instinctively cradled the enormous curve of her belly—she would look at me again with those impossible eyes……and whisper my name.Not the name I had told her.
A different one.
Older.
As though she had known me long before I ever washed ashore.(Seven days later I would understand why.)But on that third morning, kneeling in her shadow while she drank from my trembling hands, all I knew was this:I had not come to this island to survive.I had come to remember something I had forgotten I once swore to protect.