In the Virgin Islands, the sun may warm the stones by day, but by night the old world rises. The ruins of sugar mills and forgotten plantations lean into the vines, heavy with the weight of names that time could not erase. Blackbeard’s ghost still paces the high towers of St. Thomas, and the jumbies slip through the trees and along the beaches, whispering to those foolish enough to listen.
The sea holds more than wrecks and bones; it holds grudges. Along the cliffs and caves, the wind carries voices — too many, too old — calling from just beyond the light. The sugar fields, the broken forts, the deep mangroves… they remember everything the living forget.
Here, they say “United in Pride and Hope” —
but most who linger find themselves alone… and running out of both.