Day 2,091

So few people used the oceanic highway that they never questioned how so many people could enter the remote islands on the other side and so few return. Most of the country had already forgotten its existence before the construction had even finished.

For all the people coming in, the island sent nothing in return. Not so much as a single boat left for the mainland nor were there any radio stations, news stations or government bodies to be contacted. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the island was a name and a highway and nothing more.

The ones who are drawn to it are never seen again and are soon just as forgotten as the island itself. They take junction forty and head towards the coast til the trees thin out into sparse sand grass and they hear the sound of seagulls fighting each other in the sea breeze.

They don't see the birds at first and soon realise that there were never any birds to begin with, just the ocean trying to push them off the surprisingly low road and into its depths. They will struggle to control their car against the brutal waves, barely keeping on the road let alone staying in their lane.

At least nobody uses the other lane. This offers them the barest modicum of comfort as they swerve and clutch the steering wheel like holding it any harder will somehow keep them on the road. If they make it past the worst of the waves they'll see the island's lighthouse shining brightly against the midnight sky.

It doesn't matter when they leave, they always land at night and they are always welcomed.