Loneliness. The absence of laughter, tears, incessant questions from the young boy was unbearable. At every moment, the silence reminded him of his departure. He had taken him in and raised him alone on this little stretch of beach. He thought he was ready for this day… He was wrong. He had reached a great age, all those who one day had known his name had disappeared. He was now just "the old fisherman". Only. Stretched out on the fine sand of this desert island. He had lived more than the most reckless of adventurers, seen things as strange as they were incredible which would make the most solid of men lose their minds. But today it was all over. Her ultimate quest, her most precious, had been to take care of this child. Now all he had to do was prepare for his final trip ...

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He got up slowly and then returned to the little hut that housed so many memories. It was small, cold, empty. She who held so much life had become extinct. A table and two chairs of fortunes sat enthroned in the center. Various objects were spread over it. A space with a rudimentary sink and wooden cutlery leaned against the back of the room. On the left, a ladder climbed to a small recess in the wall, where a hammock was collecting dust, hopelessly empty. Behind the table, facing a drawing of an old man and a child, sat a rocking chair, padded with leaves and sand. The old fisherman put his hand on the seat, before slowly caressing the portrait. A tear rolled gently down his cheek to get lost in his bushy white beard. He closed his eyes, losing himself for a few seconds in his memories. Finally, after a long breath, he opened them again, turned and walked over to the table. On a sheet were placed in disorder various objects: a telescope, a hatchet, a stone giving off a light black smoke, a dagger, a rusty flintlock pistol, a map, a piece of fabric stained with red tending to brown, a sword… All the memories that a life of adventure could bring together. With a gesture that age had made awkward, he tied the fabric around these relics like a bundle. He then walked towards a padlocked chest nearly two meters wide, which the spiders had conquered for a long time already. He reached into his beard, pulled out a metal key. Ignoring the frantic bustle of the arachnids, he lifted the lid gently. At the bottom rested an old fishing rod. He grabbed it, blew out the dust, and looked at it wistfully. The tool was four feet long, was made of a material similar to bamboo, and fine inscriptions were carved into the handle. Two names could be read among them, "Lucy" and "Ed", followed by an inscription giving off a faint "Hope" glow. Memories that hadn't haunted him for years ...

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He looked around the interior of the cabin, then with a determined air, he took the wok from the back of the room by a string, he tied it to his back before approaching the door. He put on the straw hat hanging from the handle and for the last time in his life left the cabin, and his old life. A few steps from the house was a rudimentary raft, freshly made, with a base four by two meters. A mast in the center, three meters high, allowed the boat to be able to take the wind. The old fisherman hoisted his weak canoe as best he could until the foam of the dying waves gently caressed its wood. The sun was setting behind the Ocean, setting ablaze the waters which, a minute earlier, were a limpid blue as clear and pure as the tears which serenely flowed down the emaciated cheeks of the grandfather, crossing the intense foliage of his beard to end up being lost among the billions of drops loitering on the surface of the waves. He was an adventurer. The world was her home, traveling her reason for living. However, when he left this island, he was not just giving up his old cabin and a few things. He felt like he was giving up what kept him alive because leaving meant resigning himself to the dark reality. He was old and with the departure of the young boy he had completed his last quest. Again he closed his eyes. He inhaled the salty and salty air that happily tickled his nostrils. He had lived so much. It was time for him to reach his last destination. The most exciting and mysterious of all. He opened his eyes again, leaned over, gave a sharp push to the raft, which slid on the water, he put down his backpack and his fishing rod before climbing on it himself. The sky was pure, no cloud came to stain her dress which offered a perfectly regular gradient from orange to indigo. The world was nothing but silence and inertia. The first squall came to inflate the outstretched sail of the boat and, slowly, she darted into the distance. As he sank into the horizon, like an illustrious Viking, the old fisherman stood erect, looking back to his past. Then, imperturbable, he turned his eyes to the ocean, in order to undertake the journey that he had never ceased to postpone, the one that everyone must one day undertake. Spreading his arms like a farewell to the world that had offered him so much, he sank into nothingness. The universe was silent, as if it had religious respect for its greatest adventurer disappearing in the distance. No noise, no movement disturbed this moment when the sky and the sea offered their guest their most beautiful colors. Time was frozen as the boat pulled away. At the end of a moment when centuries and seconds mingled, the silhouette of the old fisherman disappeared in the horizon. At that moment, as if the magic no longer operated, the sun went down, the colors darkened, the waves stirred again the flat calm of the waves, the clouds polluted the clarity of the sky, the birds remember their song in their hearts. disorderly, the fauna resumed its unpredictable and savage agitation ... All life resumed its harmony, more beautiful than ever. As if this interruption had never existed. As if the fisherman had never been there.

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In the night, hundreds of miles from the island, a small ship approached the modest quay of a fishing village lit by the light of oil lamps. On board was a young boy, mechanically clapping his hand on his rudder, trembling and the facial features drawn with nervousness. He doubted. Mechanically, he stared at the water on which the boat glided. The foam was dancing happily when suddenly, the face of an old man with a shaggy beard and a straw hat seemed to emerge in the commotion of the waves, wearing a smile of pride. The boy blinked. The face was no longer there. His cheeks streaming with tears, he lifted his head and stared at the village a few feet away now. An old adventurer had passed away this evening. The young boy dismounted, calm, his gaze determined. A new one was born.