"They don't." Even as I'm saying it, I'm not sure of what I mean, whoever they are. Is it the island, the forces behind these changes that happen so often and expect us to simply follow along with it, to give in for however long it lasts? Some of the huts have been here since before I arrived, since before most of the people here arrived, and yet this one is filled to the brim with trinkets and gadgets, some still laying unfinished, ghostly remnants of the treehouse's past inhabitants as we walk through in near-silence, aside from the occasional knock when my heels collide with wood flooring instead of the rugs.

I swivel toward him as we reach the lift, my fingertips fumbling back behind me, reaching to find the switch. My eyes find his in the darkness and I wait calmly, patiently, even as my fingers start to itch to reach out for him again, and I curl them in against my palms, digging fingernails into the skin until the pain jolts me enough to turn the switch in my brain.

"They didn't, not - I don't think it's a commonly used model," I add, by way of explaining. "Whoever lived here before us probably designed and built everything, but no one's come to claim anything in their absence. It's all just - here." The door slides open behind me as the lift rises and for a moment, I have to just stand there and take it all in, trying to make out shadows of shapes barely visible in the dark, before my gaze sweeps up to his face and I reach up, adjusting the cuff on the sleeve of his t-shirt without much preamble.