"There's three of them— forty meters from the sonar fence, in the trees."
That was Sawyer— his voice crinkled with the static of the walkie-talkies.
"Well, they can't get over the fence, can they, LaFleur?"
"They're cutting some trees down. We think they're trying to make a bridge above them."
Horace is cursing on the other side—
"Don't shoot until you're sure they're coming over. Don't make yourself known. We'll come to you. Is Kwon available?"
"Negative, he's on duty near the build site."
"Fuck. Just— Mitch, you on?"
Another voice burst into the static.
"Yeah. I'll be right over."
"Take the back route. I don't want them seeing you. I'll be over soo—"
Jin turned off the walkie-talkie. He continued walking.
It was growing dark, but Jin had spent enough time on this island to know where he was going— what tracks to avoid, how to follow the trees.
He'd learned a lot of things in the past few years. He'd learned how to speak English, basic 1970s history. How to operate and keep operable the standard issue rifle he'd been given, and the lists of code phrases to use on the walkie talkie perpetually clipped to his jumpsuit.
He'd learned to be alone: physically, emotionally alone.
It had been two years, more or less. That was not this day, not the reason why Sawyer had covered for him, lied to give him this time alone— it was not the anniversary of the day he'd died, only to wake up. The day he'd been left behind.
No- the day he'd chosen to be left behind, to save his friends. His wife. His child.
He didn't care about that date.
By the time he'd burst out onto the beach, it was pitch dark. Stars tossed light lightyears through space, giving him tiny, twinkling dots to guide his way.
Jin took a long moment to look up at them— comforting, stationary. Then he kept moving.
It wasn't too far to where he'd wanted to go, but the sand was deep and loose and difficult to walk in. It took him longer than he'd expected to get to the beach— he'd have less time than he'd like.
It wasn't a problem. He didn't need too much time.
He didn't know when he'd found his destination, or how he knew— but he knew.
A collection of sand and trees not unlike the rest of the collections of sand and trees that lined this island.
He climbed the beach and sat himself at one tree in specific. It was younger than many of those that surrounded it— this one would be here in thirty year's time.
It wasn't the right tree— the right tree hadn't grown yet. But it was close— it might have been the one that supported the kitchen, or Claire's, or Sawyer's.
He pulled a bottle of wine out of his bag, poured two glasses.
Drank one.
Rubbed the empty spot where his wedding ring would be.
Happy Anniversary, Sun.