Painter woke up in silence. It was strange: usually it would be the ear-splitting ringing of her alarm that would raise her up from her sleep. Weekends weren’t spared from the wretched sound either: Painter couldn’t allow herself to sleep more than necessary. So what could have possibly roused her?

Painter’s hand fell on her pillow as she stretched, the last wisps of her dream disappearing immediately. The pillow was very soft and comfortable to lay upon. But there was a problem. That pillow, it wasn’t hers.

Painter’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze following a wooden ceiling of her new-found abode, a reasonably big wardrobe, a window, from which bright sunlight fell on a table. The table, which was empty aside of a conspicuous folded note.

How did she get here? Her mind was chaotically racing, trying to piece everything together, as Painter threw the blanket covering her aside and got up from her bed.

Painter’s eyes lowered to the sleeve of her shirt. She was wearing a shirt and trousers, which wasn’t weird, as she always was sleeping with her clothes on - a habit she had since childhood - the outward appearance of her clothes seemed unchanged, however, the texture was a bit off.

In several strides, Painter reached the table and picked up the folded note. She quickly spread out the piece of paper, her eyes went running through the lines, printed on it, immediately. Her brow furrowed, Painter at that moment wouldn’t be able to predict, just what was waiting for her, what would happen to her in the span of the following few days.

Today is Monday, a good day to welcome You to the island. You will need to spend a few days here, possibly, the rest of Your life. So, please, make sure to get familiar with Your surroundings. Your name here is Painter. Make sure to not forget it. Please, abstain from mentioning other names You possibly possess. Consequences might not be to Your liking. Your death is scheduled this Saturday. Until then, You are advised to solve the riddle, both parts of which will be granted to You during the two following nights.

Something was definitely going on - Painter was sure of it. The issue is, Painter couldn’t wrap her mind around the midsummer madness that was taking place around her. Was it even summer? Painter glanced through the window. Blue waves seemed to hit the golden shore, shimmering under the sun’s radiance. Painter exhaled, exhausted, as she massaged her eyebrows. The day had just started, but she was already tired.

A distinct smell interrupted Painter’s contemplation. Something was burning. She looked around, but neither the room she was in nor the bathroom seemed to catch on fire. Where was its source? She couldn’t allow herself to tarry: fire wasn’t something to play with. Painter opened wide the door. She didn’t seem to notice that the note she left on the table suddenly turned into ash, which scattered across her room.

Painter instantly saw the origin of the smell - a house, so similar to hers, located just a few dozens of feet away from her, was blazing brightly. The flames seemed happy to claim the house as their trophy and chewed vigorously on their quarry.

Painter spotted two people who were standing next to the house. One of them was tall, wearing all black. That person was wearing a trench coat, which seemed unnatural, considering the sunny weather. Painter was facing the back of the trench coat person, unable to see, what expression they were making or what they were telling the other person.

The other person was male with worn out clothes. Even though he faced Painter, the latter couldn’t glimpse at his face: a wooden mask obscured her view. Painter wondered whether those two were arsonists, responsible for the fire. The masked one might have noticed her. Was she in danger?

Even if the masked one noticed her, he didn’t react. Instead, the trench coat person sprinted towards the burning house and knocked the door off the hinges. The masked one ambled closely after. It seems like they weren’t arsonists after all?

“This is quite a fiery morning,” a voice behind Painter suddenly rang out. She turned to see another person. Youth, who was smiling faintly, a dimple evident on his cheek. Painter flinched slightly, her stay on the island was taking an unexpected turn. But it wasn’t the dimple that surprised her, nor the ruffled brown hair the youth had. It was HIM. How could he be here? The person Painter knew so well. His name was…

“Monk,” the person said helpfully. “Please, call me Monk.”

“Any luck?” Monk hollered to the duo, who had already left the burning house and were approaching Painter.

“The guy who was staying inside received damage, incompatible with life. There wasn’t a thing we could do to save him. The question is, why didn’t he call anyone or scream? I’m called Mask and this is Detective,” grumpy Mask pointed at the man, who was still wearing the trench coat. Detective nodded his head slightly, acknowledging Painter and Monk. His eyes never stopped, scanning every little detail tirelessly.

“And we are Monk and…” Monk looked at Painter, probably realizing that he had yet to ask her name.

“Painter here,” Painter finished for him.

“Detective, was it? Isn’t it pretty hot here? Are you sure you still want to wear that trench coat of yours?” Monk continued cheerfully. Detective didn’t refute and even unbuttoned his trench coat, but still didn’t take it off.

“And I’m Scion,” the fifth person curtly said. She joined them silently and Painter didn’t even notice her appearance until Scion joined the conversation. Scion was wearing a formal dress and had a rather strict appearance. She seemed somewhat serene, indifferent even, as if her life being in danger was just another Tuesday. Or was it her being resigned?

“There are five of us. And the sixth person has already left us. My time is on Wednesday. What’s yours?” Was Monk going to die on Wednesday? Painter didn’t want to believe it. Perhaps, there was still a chance to save him?

“Friday,” Mask let out. He seemed to lose all the interest in the conversation already and instead was looking around.

“Saturday for me,” Painter piped in.

“Thursday,” Scion said. She looked at others for the last time and turned around to leave the group.

“...Sunday,” Detective said finally. He had a strong deep voice that seemed to have a magnetic quality to it. Painter noticed a bit of ash, smudging his coat. Detective seemed like a taciturn person. Or was he simply biding his time, trying to understand the nature of the island he found himself on?

Suddenly, Scion seemed to notice something and threw a knife, which she probably hid in her pocket. Detective and Monk strode quickly to the place where the knife landed. The blade seemed to be stuck into something. Something alive.

A small yellow ball with thick fur was lying there, twitching slightly.

“What is this?” Monk asked curiously, keeping his distance. Detective grasped Monk’s hand promptly, as he jumped behind a tree. The yellow ball exploded into a million glittering particles, which quickly disappeared.

“Are you alright?” Painter asked.

“Thanks,” Monk said to Detective. “Yeah, I’m fine. Those didn’t seem to be dangerous.”

Scion picked up her knife and left. Mask decided not to stay either. Detective was looking into the direction the furry ball appeared from. It was a sunny grove, full of bushes and trees.

It appeared to be peaceful, downplaying the dangers that possibly lurked in the shadows.

Monk was looking at Detective, hesitant.

“Let’s go,” Painter beckoned Monk. The latter nodded. Detective still had six more days, he could afford to linger near the shore, if he so wanted. Monk’s time however would run out in just two days. Painter wanted to do everything possible to keep Monk alive. Perhaps, there are clues somewhere on the island. If so, she needed to hurry.

Using the rising sun as her compass, Painter ventured west, in the depths of the island, a small grove becoming the first landmark on her path. Monk was following closely behind, a small smile on his face. He didn’t appear to be distraught in the least that he might die in just two days. Painter wondered whether she was worrying more about him than he did himself.

Trees here were different from any Painter knew, though they didn’t feel completely alien either. They were just that - trees. From one of the trees, three furry balls came rolling, another two rolled out from a bush. Soon, a whole gang of furry balls gathered around Painter and Monk.

“Looks like we are surrounded,” Monk said in a cheerful voice, which seemed to indicate that he thinks it was the best thing that had happened to him today. Painter nodded, trying to think of what she should do next. Furry balls didn’t seem particularly harmful. What were the chances they had maws full of sharp pointy teeth?

“Alright, big guy. You win, I give up,” Monk said as he took a blue furry ball and after looking at him from all sides, gave it to Painter. “Here, take it. I remember, you liked the color blue.”

Painter was indeed partial to cerulean tinge, but her affection did not apply to uncanny creatures. Still, the little furry ball, nestled in Monk’s palms, didn’t look particularly harmful, so, after a slight hesitation, Painter took it. Fluffy. That was the word for it. Warm and fluffy. The little ball stirred slightly, as if choosing a comfy position. At that time Painter thought that perhaps coming to the island wasn’t that bad after all. The island. She still needed to save Monk. The dreamlike moment shattered. Painter put down the blue fluffy ball and looked at the Monk, who somehow managed to persuade a group of fluffy balls into giving him a massage. Painter stood still, collecting her thoughts, seeing as Monk stretched, a smile on his face blooming. Painter exhaled and helped Monk to get up.

“Those fluffy balls remind me of you,” Monk said, as they continued their journey to the west.

“How so?” Painter asked. Monk often seemed to bring up ideas, Painter didn’t quite understand.

“Serene and awesome,” Monk explained. Painter disagreed silently. She never was calm. There always were things to be concerned about.

Next prominent landmark was a swamp in the south-west direction. All kinds of weird phantasmagorical creatures could be seen dwelling in there. They moved, preying on each other and disappearing in what seemed to be wisps of white vapor, swaying to and fro almost as if alive. Wild vegetation seemed to bloom and wilt there, giving it an uncanny aura.

Monk tried to go there, seemingly excited. Painter stopped him: “Don’t. That place is too dangerous.”

Actually, if Painter was alone, then most likely that swamp would be the first place she wandered to. She felt wrong though, with a single thought of letting Monk in the harm’s way. Painter could risk her own life, but she didn’t want to risk the ones she cherished.

The island was very different from the place Painter was from. Swamp’s dangers were easy to spot. Perhaps, others wouldn’t be so explicit. If a phantom threat arises, would she be able to deal with it? Painter pricked up her ears, observing everything carefully.

Forward to the west, a steep mountain lay. It didn’t seem like it could be easily climbed without any equipment. Still, they could get around it, to the south, or to the north.

“Which direction would you like to choose,” Painter asked Monk.

“I prefer warmth, so let’s go south,” Monk proposed. Painter doubted that on such a small island North and South would have different climates.

“Have you ever climbed a mountain?” Painter asked.

“Only small ones. But there’s a mountain I want to climb,” Monk admitted.

“Oh? Which mountain?” Painter got slightly curious.

“The mountain of your thoughts. It sure is a great mountain,” Monk smiled. Painter didn’t think it was true; her thoughts were nothing but grand in her opinion. Yet, she didn’t want to interrupt.

As they went further in the south-west direction, the temperature seemed to drop. It started to snow. Painter shivered.

“We could go back, if you want,” Monk offered.

“It’s alright, let’s continue,” Painter declined. She couldn’t possibly agree, knowing that there could be a clue. That, and she liked snow. She hadn’t seen snow in a long time. It reminded her of younger years. She didn’t want to leave even if it was a bit nippy. Occasional weird trees grew here. Painter noticed a small brown creature in the distance.

“I feel betrayed,” Monk said. “Didn’t we choose the south to get to a warmer spot?”

“The South Pole is cold just like the North one. Actually, the South Pole is even colder,” Painter shrugged. They continued to walk until they could see the island ending in a crag. Monk froze still in his tracks.

“Those trees,” Monk said, surprised. “Aren’t they giant popsicles?”

“They certainly bear some similarity to those,” Painter nodded. Could those trees really be ice cream? After everything she had seen on the island today, a giant popsicle tree didn’t seem that far fetched.

Painter and Monk approached one of the trees. It was covered in chocolate and hazelnut. While Painter was looking at it, Monk took a bite, revealing white filling that was hiding inside, spotted with caramel incrustations.

“It’s pretty tasty,” Monk responded, seeing the question in the Painter’s eyes. Was it really safe to eat those? Whatever. Saturday is soon. Painter took a bite of her own. A plethora of flavors assaulted her palate. She had never tried something as tasty as this before. After the first bite followed the second. Painter wanted to comprehend the taste, a part of which seemed to elude her.

Suddenly, Painter felt as if she was being watched by someone. She turned around. Detective was standing there, watching as Painter and Monk were eating the ice cream tree. He was still wearing his trench coat, though now it wasn’t excessive to wear something warm. Additionally, Detective’s trench coat now had a couple of gashes, one of its buttons missing. It seemed as if Detective went through a battlefield. He didn’t try to travel through the swamp on his own, did he? Painter was almost sure it was the case.

Detective approached Painter and Monk with a leisurely gait. Painter noticed that Detective was slightly limping on his right leg.

“It’s cold,” Detective said as he saw Painter shiver. He unbuttoned his trench coat and held it out to Painter. It smelled of blood.

“Thanks, but there’s no need. Western direction ends with a crag, as I could see here. We will be returning soon,” Painter declined Detective’s gesture. The latter just shrugged.

“Are you alright, buddy? You don’t look that good,” Monk asked Detective.

“I’m good,” Detective seemed to be content as he was.

Meanwhile, the small brown animal Painter noticed earlier seemed to be happy to receive some visitors as it was frolicking around Painter and company. It's a chocolate bunny with a fancy ribbon on its neck, Painter realized, thinking just how absurd it might sound.

The bunny hopped towards Painter, allowing her to pet itself, but then jumped aside, squealing, as if cut. A thin layer of chocolate remained on Painter’s hand.

“Poor bunny. Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Painter apologized. She wanted to make new friends among the inhabitants of the island, not to leave wounds on them.

“I think that rabbit understands you didn’t mean to do it,” Monk said. “It doesn’t look scared of you even if it keeps its distance.”

After what happened to the bunny, Painter didn’t linger in the frosty terrain. She and Monk went in the eastern direction they came from. The sun was already past its prime, hinting that they have spent a lot of time traveling.

The grass here grew lush and verdant. Perhaps, her body was confused and her mind busy before, so only now she finally realized that she was rather hungry and tired.

“Let’s take a break,” Painter offered.

“Alright,” Monk agreed and the both of them sat on the grassy bed.

“It seems like those ice cream trees were the only edible thing we chanced upon,” Painter said wistfully.

“Apart from the supplies stored in our wardrobes? Sounds about right,” Monk confirmed. Was there some food in her wardrobe? Painter was distracted by the smell, so she didn’t have an opportunity to check.

“What was stored there?” Painter decided to clarify.

“My note mentioned that food in our wardrobes will change every day. Didn’t you read your note?” Monk furrowed his brows.

“My note mentioned nothing about wardrobes,” Painter tried to think of what that would imply. If everyone had different notes, then perhaps conditions differed from person to person.

“Well, my note didn’t contain anything else that would be of value,” Monk shrugged.

“Neither did mine,” Painter said. She looked at Monk closely. He seemed to appear calm and jovial. He didn’t look like a doomed person, someone who might die in just two days.

It was time to move on. Soon, Painter and Monk reached a huge depression, which could be called a lake, were it not for the color of the liquid. It was white and opaque. Was it even a liquid at all? It seemed to move slightly, but it didn't resemble flowing water. If anything, it seemed like something alive. An impossible construction was towering in the sky: boulders of different sizes, full of flowers, vines, bushes and occasional trees were connected to each other by suspense bridges. Creatures of two kinds were flying around those boulders. Some of them were visually similar to colorful butterflies, covered by thick shaggy fur, their size comparable to that of Painter. Others were lookalikes of turtles, except they could fly, were pretty big and each of them had a wooly seat that looked alluringly cozy.

Monk tapped on Painter’s right shoulder.

“Yes?” she asked, turning around. No one was there.

“What’s the matter?” Monk asked, sounding confused. He was on Painter’s left, some distance behind.

“Strange. I felt as if someone touched my shoulder,” Painter muttered. Did she only imagine it?

“Perhaps, it was just the wind?” Monk looked at Painter inquisitively. It was true, the wind had become stronger. But an uneasy feeling followed Painter. People try to convince themselves that it was nothing, only when they are sure it was something.

“Still, be cautious. I don’t like this,” Painter warned Monk to which he nodded.

“Well then, do you still want to continue?” Monk asked Painter.

“Let’s see if we could find something on one of those boulders,” Painter decided, resolution brimming in her eyes.

The two of them used a bridge connected to the land from one of the boulders. It was nice. Painter liked the feeling when it swayed from side to side, in tone to her movement. She looked down. Milky abyss turned there, as if waiting for one of them to make a careless step.

After crossing a few boulders, Painter’s hope to find something of value among those boulders started to wane. Their size differed, the same was true for their greenery. But there were no clues that could be utilized.

“What does this place exist for? How could it even exist?” Painter muttered.

“I’m unsure how it could exist, but I see a good use for it,” Monk said seriously. Did he think of something she was unable to comprehend? Painter’s mind raced, trying to think of a possible explanation.

“What is it?” Painter asked after a while, unable to think of anything that Monk could deem so important.

“It’s a perfect place for playing tag,” Monk smiled. Painter exhaled. She was a bit tired after walking for so long. Suddenly, Painter noticed that Monk’s shadow grew longer than it should have been. Then, a part of his shadow detached from him. A shadowy mask, with green glowing fires instead of eyes appeared, a pair of hands emerged and the shadow pushed Monk off the bridge. Monk was still smiling, when he lost his footing, falling into the abyss. Painter caught Monk’s hand.

“I’m not going to let you go,” Painter squeezed out.

“Behind you,” Monk roared. Painter felt someone shoving her and the next moment the two of them came tumbling down in the air. Painter finally found out just who tapped on her shoulder earlier.

“Oh,” Painter let out. They were nearing the white abyss rapidly. The next moment the two of them were devoured by it.

The white abyss spat Painter and Monk out of it. The two of them fell onto even ground, on the mainland they started from. Small bits of white abyss were left on their clothes, hair and skin.

“It tastes like panna cotta,” Painter said, surprised after tasting a bit of the white abyss that remained on her sleeve. At the edge of her scope, she noticed a whole gang of mischievous masked ghosts, circling in a roundelay.

“Tasty,” Monk agreed. “Thanks for trying to save me. I appreciate that.”

“I failed,” Painter shook her head.

“It’s the effort that matters,” Monk smiled. Painter didn’t argue.

The sun was close to setting. Monk and Painter unanimously decided it was the time to return. As they were nearing their houses, Painter thought of something, “Would you like me to stay with you?”

“Didn’t your note tell you that we need to stay apart during the night?” Monk sounded genuinely surprised.

“It didn’t! You told me there wasn’t anything else important!” Painter was fuming.

“But I thought your note told you that,” Monk tried to justify himself. After that, Painter compared what she memorized from her note, word to word, to what Monk remembered from his. It really seemed like there was nothing else.

“It’s time to part for today then,” Painter said as they reached Monk’s house.

“Let me walk you home?” Monk offered.

“No need,” Painter declined. Finally it was time to check her wardrobe for food and soak in a bath. Monk didn’t insist and left.

As Painter was nearing her home, an unfamiliar voice sounded from a neighboring house, the door of which was opened ajar: “Uhmm, do you have a minute?

It wasn’t anyone Painter was familiar with. There, in that small house so similar to hers, was hiding a young woman, looking at Painter with big, terrified eyes.

“Yes?” Painter asked.

“I still can’t understand what’s going on! It seems like I was kidnapped here, what is going to happen to me? A weird note on the table told me to call myself Dreamer if I don’t want to die! It also told me that I’m going to die tomorrow,” Dreamer cried, two streams of tears marring her face. “I wanted to leave the house before, but I saw a scary man, wearing a mask, and another one who looked as if he could see through you! They are both not good people! I hid in my house until I suddenly saw you. Are you also their captive? Just where are we? What will happen to us?”

“First, calm down,” Painter said. Her head started to hurt. She never was good when it came to dealing with people. “Mask and Detective are captives just like me and you. This island isn’t something which could be explained easily. Just today I fell into a panna cotta lake.”

“A panna cotta lake?” Dreamer blinked.

“Yes, a lake which feels like jelly to the touch. A mischievous spirit shoved me there,” Painter explained patiently.

“Are you telling me it’s like a fairy tale?” Dreamer muttered dubiously.

“In a way, yes. Now, get some rest and I will also get some. Today was a busy day. Tomorrow surely won’t be easy either,” Painter yawned. Listening to Painter’s meditative voice, Dreamer seemed to become less restless. It seemed like Dreamer still had questions, but looking at the state, Painter was in, scaredy cat relented.

Painter finally returned to her home. She only left it this morning, but she felt like a lot more time had passed. As Painter entered the house, she felt some sort of discrepancy, as if something was missing. Perhaps, it was just her being tired? Painter checked her wardrobe right away. Just like Monk predicted, it was full of food. Chicken roasted in sesame seeds with some sweet and sour sauce. Painter smiled. In a corner of the wardrobe, she noticed a set of clothing, identical to the one she was wearing, albeit clean. A few bottles of water were laid on top of the clothes. In the depths of her wardrobe, Painter noticed a painting kit.

After soaking for a while in a bath, Painter slumped onto her bed. Life was good. Tired as she was, Painter immediately fell to sleep.

She dreamt of autumn. Of trees, sporting all kinds of colorful leaves. Some of the leaves were falling, becoming alive for a short moment, and she danced in their wake.