GIMP Forum

The nurse adjusted the IV drip with practiced hands, her fingers lingering a second too long on the cold metal valve. Stephanie noticed the hesitation. "She's not eating again," the nurse murmured, avoiding Stephanie's eyes. The clipboard in her arms bore a single sheet—too thin for all the things left unsaid.

Stephanie sat down on the edge of the bed, the plastic mattress cover crinkling under her weight. Her grandmother's hand, loose-skinned and trembling, curled around hers like a vine clinging to stone. "You came," the old woman rasped. The scent of antiseptic couldn't quite mask the sour tang beneath—something organic, something fading. Stephanie swallowed. "Of course I did. I brought your favorite." She held up a paper bag, the grease from the custard buns staining through.

The old woman's nostrils flared, but she didn't reach for it. Instead, she stared at the ceiling where a water stain branched like veins. "Ask me now," she said. The words hung between them, sharp as the IV needle in her arm. Stephanie's throat tightened. She'd rehearsed this moment for years—ever since she'd found the brittle photo tucked in Grand-Aunt Moana's prayer book, the edges nibbled by silverfish. A portrait of women and soldiers, their eyes black pits in the flashbulb glare.

A fly buzzed against the window. The grandmother's fingers tightened suddenly, her nails leaving half-moon indents in Stephanie's palm. "You want to know," she continued, voice cracking like dry earth. "About the camp. About the men." The heart monitor beeped again—slower this time. The grandmother's tongue darted out to lick cracked lips. Stephanie reached for the water cup, her fingers brushing the plastic just as her grandmother grabbed her wrist. The old woman's grip was shockingly strong, the bones grinding together. "Listen," Her pupils dilated, swallowing the faded brown of her irises. Her yellowed teeth clenched before beginning the story that she had kept inside for decades. Stephanie leaned in, catching the scent of her grandmother's breath—old newspapers and the metallic tang of blood thinners.

Stephanie, ever the vigilant upcoming news reporter, clicked on her recorder. The paper bag split open in her lap, custard oozing onto her skirt, unnoticed. The old woman's breath came faster now, shallow panting that fogged her oxygen tube in erratic bursts. She began her tale:

"Miss Camryn?" The small voice cut through the humid classroom air. Moana stood beside Camryn's desk, clutching a worn notebook. "I finished the math problems."


Camryn smiled, taking the notebook. The scent of saltwater and damp earth drifted through the open windows. Outside, palm fronds rustled against each other, a constant rhythm beneath the Pacific sun. She traced a finger over Moana's careful calculations. "These are perfect. You're getting faster every day." The girl beamed, her dark eyes lighting up before she skipped back to her seat among the other village children.


Camryn had arrived three months ago, fresh out of high school with a scholarship to study education. Volunteering here felt like the purest expression of her dream – shaping young minds far from the sterile classrooms back home. Her blonde hair, usually pulled back in a practical ponytail, escaped in wisps around her face as she moved between desks. She wore simple cotton dresses, already faded by the relentless sun, but her enthusiasm remained bright. Teaching wasn't just a future career; it was a calling she felt deep in her bones, especially here, where learning felt like a shared adventure.

Moana became her shadow. The ten-year-old possessed a quiet intensity, soaking up knowledge like the thirsty volcanic soil soaked up rain. Her questions were sharp, insightful, often surprising Camryn with their depth. After lessons, they’d walk along the beach, Moana pointing out constellations Camryn couldn’t name, explaining the intricate patterns of fish traps woven from pandanus leaves, her voice soft but sure. Camryn learned more from Moana about the island’s rhythms and resilience than she ever taught in return. A bond formed, simple and profound – the eager student and the teacher who realized she was also learning.

The first tremor wasn’t physical. It came on a Tuesday afternoon, carried on the strained voice of Brother Thomas, the elderly missionary priest. He burst into the classroom, his face grey beneath his tan, clutching a crackling radio receiver. "Listen!" he rasped. The tinny voice sputtered through static: "...advancing rapidly... coastal villages... immediate evacuation ordered..." The cheerful classroom chatter died instantly. Wide, frightened eyes locked onto Camryn’s face. The scent of damp earth suddenly smelled like fear. Moana’s small hand slipped into hers, cold and trembling.

Panic erupted like a sudden squall. Within hours, the village was a whirlwind of frantic packing. Essential belongings were bundled into sacks; fishing nets abandoned on the shore. A weathered cargo ship, hastily commandeered, groaned against the pier. Camryn helped herd children onto the swaying deck, her voice hoarse from shouting reassurances she didn’t feel. The humid air choked her, thick with the sour tang of sweat and desperation. As the ship’s engines roared to life, she scanned the thinning crowd on the dock one last time. Her heart seized. Moana’s familiar bright pink dress was nowhere to be seen. "Moana!" she screamed against the engine’s thunder. "Where is she?" A villager pointed wildly back towards the cluster of huts. "Her grandmother... she wouldn't leave the old woman... they hid!"

The gangplank was already lifting. Without a second thought, Camryn leaped. She landed hard on the splintered wood of the dock, stumbling forward as the ship pulled away, leaving her stranded. The village was eerily silent now, emptied of life. Only the wind sighed through the abandoned huts. "Moana!" Camryn yelled, her voice echoing unnaturally. She raced towards Moana’s family hut, dread coiling in her stomach like a snake. Inside, it was dark and still. Only Moana’s grandmother lay on a mat, eyes closed peacefully, already gone. No Moana. The realization hit Camryn like a physical blow: the girl had likely hidden herself somewhere, terrified and alone. Outside, a new sound sliced through the silence – the deep, rhythmic thud of approaching helicopters.