Age: Quantum Summer

This is everything that happen before the lead up of Tinashe seeing Quantum City, Yes at the time she was more vital than ever!

PAST ISLAND

This Is another story Like No OTHER !

Tinashe: Forget Me Not!

Intro / Part.1: Ti-Na-Sane

Part.2: Welcome To Past Island

Part.3: Ben

Part.4: Death On The Sand

Part.5: Other Things Are Nothing

Part.6: Forget Trust?

Part.7: Bring Back Painful Past

Part.8: The Last Star Child

Part.9: Final Kill

Closing / Part.10: Thanking God!

Before she could have a say, Tinashe was gifted the moment of peace & new memories, that Tinashe was only offered.

The drone of the half yacht engines had always been a soothing balm to Tinashe, a low hum that promised escape.

This is everything that happen before Quantum City, yes at the time she was more vital than ever!

The relentless cycle of albums, tours, interviews – the constant demand to be on – had left her hollow before she could later on disappear completely.

At this time… She was on a private journey, ostensibly for inspiration, but truly for silence.

The turquoise water of the Caribbean was meant to cure, not to betray.

(But the ocean, like fame, often had a cruel undertow.)

The storm hit without warning, a monstrous fist manifesting from a clear sky.

One moment, she was sipping a mango smoothie on the deck of The Siren, her sleek, minimalist yacht; the next, the world was a maelstrom of screaming wind and towering waves.

The captain, a grizzled old salt named Ben had barely time to shout, with a quick flash back in time to his earlier years of sailing the sea!

Ben: Get below! before a rogue wave the size of a small building crashed over the bow, tearing through the vessel like paper.

The last thing Tinashe remembered was the sickening lurch, the smell of ozone and salt, and the splintering shriek of metal, before consciousness dissolved into a cold, crushing black.

Tinashe awoke to the insistent caress of cool sand against her cheek, the rhythmic whisper of waves…

and a throbbing pain in her head.

The voices mixed with the ocean spoke to her

Tinashe lost in the dizzy daze!

Tinashe: Where…How??

( Not able to stand )

Replaying it all in her head

Tinashe: Okay…After the boat crashed, the last thing she remembered was the splintering impact, the roar of water, and a terrifying lurch into the icy dark.

Now, the sun was a low, fiery orange on the horizon, painting the vast expanse of the ocean in bruised purples and golds.

She blinked, her vision blurring, then sharpening.

Her tongue felt like sandpaper, and the salt taste in her mouth was overwhelming.

Pushing herself onto her elbows, a groan escaped her lips as a wave of nausea washed over her.

Her head hammered, a relentless percussion behind her eyes. A quick, shaky hand went to her temple, finding a tender, swollen lump.

(She saw her sister sitting on a tree somewhere near by, Tinashe could feel it.)

Tinashe: ‘It is Not real’

Tinashe said to her self, as she stopped walking, turning her head to the right!

Getting another image but of the island this time?!

The beach stretched endlessly in both directions – pristine, untouched, save for a scattered trail of flotsam marking the high tide line.

There was no sign of the catamaran, no other passengers, just a few shattered planks of wood and an empty life vest tangled in some seaweed further down the shore.

She was alone.

Utterly, terrifyingly alone.

A cold dread began to seep into her bones, replacing the initial confusion of every where she step was photo to be had.

(Secretly true but none of that matter)

Her beauty heavenly to all that couldn’t ever be a bad bi#$h!

Imaging her self in a speargun with heels on !

Now called the island TISAA-Land

The whisper of the waves no longer sounded soothing…but silent as Tinashe modeled into the trees further!

Tinashe keep going into she found something?

Even If Nothing!

somewhere there had to be something!

In all this beauty…

In just a few steps, she was on the beach again?

But How?

Tinashe had went in a circle somehow !

giggling at herself, to make light of the short exploring

Silly her (she thought)

as she made her way to the more sandy parts of the beach

tinashe came across someone, wishing she had a weapon, just in case

Guy: You know you can leave right?

Nashe: Excuse me, where did you come from?

Guy:

thinking back

Tinashe noticed earlier all boats looked close but was far in a way for the island to laugh at it shortening our sight with wind.

but like a vast, indifferent sigh.

Tinashe can feel the push and pull of the ocean, that only grow if she got closer!?

Collecting the energy of what the island was trying to tell her, mind go!

She quickly returned to land, looking like one of Amphitrite children out of water for the first time.

Walking slow in joy of the moment, the relaxing of the mind was the only way out.

The wind grow as her hair took in all the dry cool breeze…

Turning around to look behind herself!

She walked remembering the time it was just her and her brother

Her body ached in places she didn't know existed, all Tinashe wanted was to sit and let her body rest…

Tinashe: “soon”

(she said to her self over and over, While remember how bright the sun was when she first opened them, it was as if the sun had become close)

But She kept moving

outside of dancing and yoga.

Tinashe started over again, remembering opening her eyes…

a blinding sun assaulted her, making her turn away before seeing the ship.

Above, a canopy of impossibly green palm fronds swayed. Before her, the vast, indifferent expanse of the ocean.

Her eyes darted wildly, scanning the horizon, then the tree line that loomed behind the beach, before all the tall dividers around the mystery island.

A choked sound, half-sobbing gasp, half-frustrated growl, tore from her throat. (The heavy pull in off the waves)

A dense, emerald wall of unfamiliar foliage rose steeply, hinting at an unforgiving interior. There were no lights, no smoke, no distant hum of engines – just the raw, untamed presence of land and sea.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her throat!

She needed water, The thought was a primal scream in her parched mind. Clumsily, she pushed herself fully upright, her legs wobbling beneath her.

The world tilted precariously, and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the vertigo to pass. When she opened them again, the setting sun had dipped lower, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like spectres across the sand.

She took a shaky step, then another, moving towards the edge of the jungle. Her bare feet sank into the fine sand, each step an effort.

Her gaze meticulously swept the high tide line, hoping against hope for something, anything, useful!

A water bottle, a piece of clothing, a signal flare…

But there was only the mournful detritus of the ocean: polished shells, tangled seaweed, and the splintered bones of what might have been her vessel.

As she reached the tree line, a sudden, piercing cry echoed from deep within the dense growth – a sound she couldn't place, something wild and untamed. It wasn't birdsong. It was a guttural, unsettling shriek that raised gooseflesh on her arms, despite the lingering warmth of the day. The jungle, so inviting from a distance in its promise of shade and potential resources, now seemed to pulse with an unseen, predatory life.

Night was coming swiftly. The air grew cooler, and a low, mournful wind began to stir the fronds of the palm trees, their silhouettes stark against the fading light. Tinashe knew she couldn't stay on the open beach. But stepping into that dark, unknown interior felt like walking into a gaping maw. She was a tiny, broken thing on a vast, indifferent canvas, and the terror of her isolation was quickly giving way to the stark, terrifying demands of survival.

The Siren was gone. Splinters of polished wood and twisted metal were scattered across the pristine beach, like discarded toys.

Panic was a cold hand gripping her heart. She was a pop star, accustomed to assistants, security, five-star hotels. Now, she was just a woman, alone, on a beach that stretched in either direction into dense, untamed jungle.

Days bled into a blur of raw survival. Her initial attempts at signaling – waving a tattered piece of her silk sarong, arranging stones into a pathetic "SOS" – felt futile against the indifferent sky. The island seemed to breathe a primeval silence, undisturbed by human presence. There were no contrails in the sky, no distant hum of engines, no other wreckage, no sign of Ben. Just the chirping of unseen birds and the perpetual roar of the surf.

She scrounged for fresh water, finding a trickle from a moss-covered rock face. She learned to crack open coconuts with a sharp stone, the sweet milk a lifeline. Her hands, once accustomed to microphones and designer clothes, became calloused and scraped. Her vibrant, perfectly styled hair grew matted with salt and sand. The person Tinashe the world knew began to peel away, revealing a wilder, more primal self beneath.

One sweltering afternoon, driven by an insatiable curiosity and a dwindling supply of coconuts, she ventured inland. The jungle was thick, alive with buzzing insects and the rustle of unseen creatures. After hours of hacking through vines with a sharp piece of driftwood, she stumbled upon it.

It wasn't a ruin in the conventional sense, not like the grand temples of Angkor Wat or the weathered stones of the Coliseum. This was something far older, far more absorbed by the earth. Massive, obsidian-like blocks, carved with strange, swirling symbols, half-swallowed by ancient banyan trees. A central, circular plaza, now choked with ferns, hinted at a forgotten civilization. It was entirely alien, unlike any architecture she'd ever seen, a testament to a people lost to time, their story whispered only by the wind through the leaves.

The air here felt different, heavy with a silent history. There was an altar, intricately carved, facing a gap in the tree line where the setting sun painted the ocean crimson. It was then she understood the true nature of her prison. This wasn't merely an uninhabited island; it was forgotten. Forgotten by cartographers, by explorers, by the march of human progress. It had simply receded from memory, carrying its ancient secrets with it.

Fear warred with a strange sense of awe. She wasn't just stranded; she was adrift in time. The world she knew – the flashing lights, the roar of the crowd, the pressure of a million expectations – felt impossibly distant, a dream woven by another person. Here, on this forgotten rock, Tinashe the pop star was irrelevant. Only Tinashe the survivor mattered.

Days turned into weeks. She built a crude shelter from palm fronds and salvaged wreckage. She mastered a rudimentary fish trap. She even discovered a cave within the ruins, a cool, dry sanctuary where the ancient symbols seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. She found a strange peace in the routine, in the raw, elemental struggle. The silence, initially terrifying, became a companion. She sang sometimes, her voice raw and unadorned, the jungle her only audience. It was a different kind of performance, purely for herself.

One evening, perched on the highest point of the island, watching a meteor shower streak across the inky sky, a realization dawned. She hadn't been rescued, and she hadn't found a way off. But she had found something else. She had found herself, stripped bare, refined by the elements. The island, meant to be her tomb, had become her crucible.

She didn't know if she would ever leave. But as the ancient symbols on the ruins seemed to hum in the deepening twilight, Tinashe knew one thing for certain: she was no longer just the product of a machine. She was a woman shaped by the wild, echoing the forgotten power of the island itself. And whatever came next, she would face it, not with the curated confidence of a superstar, but with the quiet, unyielding strength of someone who had truly survived.

The deep hum of the ancient symbols grew more pronounced with each passing night, no longer just a faint resonance but a subtle thrum beneath her feet, a pulse in the very air. Tinashe found herself drawn back to the circular plaza, to the obsidian blocks that absorbed the moonlight and seemed to radiate an inner light of their own. Her pop star past, with its intricate melodies and layered harmonies, had trained her ear for patterns, for the subtle shifts in tone and rhythm. Now, she began to perceive them in the island itself, in the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore, the whisper of the wind through the fronds, and most profoundly, in the silent song of the ruins.

One night, under a sky ablaze with stars and a full, silver moon, she sat before the intricately carved altar. The symbols seemed to dance, casting shifting shadows that played tricks on her eyes. As she watched, mesmerized, a particular constellation she'd learned to identify—a distant, shimmering cluster of stars—aligned perfectly with a specific etched mark on the altar's surface. It wasn't a coincidence. A shiver, not of fear but of profound understanding, ran through her.

Instinctively, her fingers traced the cold, smooth lines of the carving. As her touch met the designated spot, a low, resonant chord vibrated through the stone, echoing deep within her bones. The air thickened. The banyan trees, ancient and gnarled, seemed to draw closer, their leaves rustling with a sudden intensity. Then, with a soft click and the distant rumble of moving earth, a section of the altar, previously indistinguishable from the rest, slid inward, revealing a small, dark opening.

It wasn't a grand entrance, but a modest aperture, barely wide enough for her to squeeze through. A faint, ethereal glow emanated from within, a light unlike anything she'd ever seen – a soft, pulsing blue that seemed to breathe with its own life. All the fear of the unknown, the primal caution that had kept her alive, vanished, replaced by an irresistible pull. This wasn't merely a hidden chamber; it felt like a gateway, a secret passage into the very heart of the island’s forgotten power.

Taking a deep breath, Tinashe squeezed through the opening. The chamber beyond was small, a perfectly circular room lined with the same obsidian-like stone, but here, the swirling symbols glowed with a steady, serene luminescence. In the center, suspended within a delicate, almost invisible field of energy, floated an object. It was a sphere, about the size of her fist, crafted from what appeared to be solidified light, shimmering with all the colours of the aurora borealis. It pulsed in harmony with the blue glow of the walls, and within its depths, she thought she could discern faint, swirling patterns that mirrored the carvings around her.

As she reached out a hesitant hand, the sphere pulsed brighter, and a gentle warmth enveloped her. It wasn't just heat; it was a profound sense of connection, of ancient wisdom pouring into her, not in words, but in pure, unfiltered understanding. Visions flashed through her mind: images of a people who had harnessed the very essence of the stars, who had sung the world into being, and who had chosen this island as a sanctuary, a beacon for a knowledge far beyond human comprehension. They hadn't vanished; they had merely transcended, leaving behind this silent sentinel.

The island, she realized, wasn't just a place of survival; it was a living library, a time capsule, and she, Tinashe, the pop star shipwrecked from a forgotten world, had been chosen to unlock its first chapter. She didn't know why her, or what she was meant to do with this newfound understanding. But as her fingers finally brushed the surface of the glowing sphere, a faint, ancient melody, more profound than any she had ever composed, resonated deep within her soul, a melody that promised not an escape from the island, but a destiny intertwined with its very heart. The quiet strength she had found was not merely for survival; it was a preparation for something far greater, something that was only just beginning to unfold.

The moment her skin met the solidified light, the sphere didn't just brighten; it expanded, not physically, but as a wave of pure information and energy that surged through her, flooding every cell. The ancient melody intensified, no longer just within her soul, but resonating through the very air of the chamber. It wasn't a tune she recognized, yet her vocal cords instinctively formed the notes, a pure, wordless harmony that blended with the sphere's hum. As she sang, the ethereal blue glow of the chamber deepened, then began to ripple outwards, seeping through the porous obsidian, illuminating the dark passages of the earth beneath the plaza.

Outside, the circular plaza began to pulse with the same soft blue. The obsidian blocks, once silent absorbers of moonlight, now glowed from within, their ancient carvings tracing delicate patterns of light across the moonlit stone. The banyan trees, their gnarled branches reaching to the heavens, shivered, and then, impossibly, vibrant bioluminescent moss bloomed rapidly across their trunks and leaves, creating a living aurora within the jungle.

Tinashe felt the island respond to her song, to the sphere's awakening. It was as if she had activated a dormant network, a colossal, organic machine. The sphere, now a part of her, not physically, but as an extension of her consciousness, pulsed with a new directive. The patterns within its depths, once indecipherable, now resolved into complex, moving schematics—not maps of land, but of energy conduits, of ley lines stretching across the entire island, pointing to other ‘nodes’ that lay dormant, waiting for a similar touch, a similar song.

Her pop star past, once a distant echo of a forgotten life, now coalesced with her present. Her intuitive understanding of rhythm, harmony, and composition wasn't just a skill; it was a language. The island wasn't a machine, but an instrument, and she, Tinashe, was its conductor. Her mission was clear: to awaken the rest of the island, to restore the full symphony of its forgotten power. There would be no escape, not in the traditional sense, but a transformation, a re-forging of her purpose, and perhaps, of the island itself. The quiet strength had indeed been preparation; the performance was about to begin, and the stage was the entire world she had washed ashore upon.

The ancient melody, now Tinashe’s own, faded from her lips, but the harmony vibrated within her skull, a silent hum of understanding. The sphere, no longer just "it," but "we," shimmered with a profound intelligence. The schematics within its depths didn't just point; they beckoned, each dormant node a silent chord waiting for its note.

This wasn't just a revelation; it was an ascension. Her consciousness had expanded, unfurling like a sail in a cosmic wind. She could feel the intricate root systems of the banyan trees, the quiet thrum of subterranean rivers, the distant, steady beat of the island's volcanic heart. The very air, once a mere medium for sound, now felt charged with possibility, a canvas for her awakening symphony.

Outside, the plaza’s azure glow intensified, painting the jungle in shifting shades of deep blue and emerald. The bioluminescent moss on the banyan trees wasn’t merely blooming; it was pulsing, a living, breathing network of light that mirrored the energy conduits Tinashe now perceived. Creatures of the night—nocturnal birds, insects, even unseen mammals—stirred, drawn by the ethereal luminescence and the subtle, resonate hum that permeated the air. Their eyes, accustomed to darkness, reflected pinpricks of blue, wide with an ancient, instinctual awareness.

The nearest node, the sphere projected into her mind, lay nestled deep within the island's central caldera, a place whispered about in hushed tones by the islanders, a place said to be both sacred and dangerous. It wasn't a journey of miles, but of energy, a progression along the awakened ley lines. The path wasn't physical in the traditional sense, but Tinashe knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that she had to walk it.

A profound sense of exhilaration, mingled with a quiet awe, washed over her. This wasn't the fleeting high of a sold-out stadium, but a deeper, more fundamental resonance. Her entire life, the pursuit of perfect pitch, the endless hours of composition, the intuitive grasp of emotional impact through sound—it had all been preparation for this. The island wasn’t just an instrument; it was a grand, cosmic synthesizer, and she, Tinashe, was finally ready to play.

With a deep breath, the chamber’s pure blue light reflecting in her eyes, she pushed herself up from the altar. The sphere, still radiating its soft glow, didn't leave her, but settled into her chest, a phantom weight that felt more intrinsic than her own heartbeat. It was a symbiotic merger, a redefinition of her very being. The girl who had washed ashore, broken and lost, was gone. In her place stood the conductor, infused with ancient power, ready to write the next movement of the island's incredible, forgotten song. The first note of a global performance had been struck. Now, she had to find the next.