An empty island, there's only sand and a few trees.

The man, his only belongings is a riddled bucket and tattered clothes.

Pomegranates already lost their taste, dull and repetitive.

He looks at the horizon, but the hope is already gone.

A small sprout is his only companion, many days passed, but it did not grow.

Seasons pass, the sky is yellow, then green, and finally brown.

Winter.

Snow falls, the ocean freezes.

The man still stares at the horizon. The hope is already gone.

It's cold.

Should he take a step, knowing it won't change anything?

There might be no turning back, but does it even matter?

So, he takes a step. A little try.

Shadows dance under the ice.

He knows there is no way out. He escapes to a half-sunken ship, his old home.

Shadows climb out of the water. Their presence is permanent.

A hundred bottles on the floor, reminiscence of his first days.

The sun sets. The night will fall.

A hundred black hands block the view from the window.

He hears their chattering teeth.

What do they want?

It's the primordial hunger.

He's the last one.

He lies down on an empty hammock.

The wooden octopus trophy stares down at him.

He will not sleep tonight.

The wind outside blows.

Should he try again?

He climbs up, to the bridge.

He tries to start the radio call, even after already knowing it's broken.

Beyond repair.

Silence.

He tries again.

Over and over.

It's already tomorrow.

He keeps the radio close to his heart, knowing hope is already gone.

It's cold.

The lights flicker, solar panels must still be working, but for how long?

He will climb higher.

He sees clearly now, the steel structures are still there, far away, beyond the mist.

Radio towers, oil rigs, wind turbines.

The shadows hide under the ice.

How far can he go before they appear again?

How far can he go before ice melts?

Stuck in limbo. Changing prison cells.

He has already seen them all. There is no liberation. Only isolation.

He knows the danger.

Yet he departs again.