Wheeling Gull Isle Plunder me not!

The two weeks the Habit spent of the island were quiet. He tended to keep to himself, pondering in solitude in the futile hope that the reason he had had washed to shore whould reveal itself to him. Initially, he had hoped his amnesia would only be a temporary problem, but as the days passed on and on, the hope that memory would retun became a dying dream. Nothing returned but vague feelings; anger mostly, but the Habit shrugged it off.

He took residence where the sand of the tidal flats met the dense woods of the Isle; it's proximity to food was impeccable. Mostly, the Habit spent his time eating— scavenging for clams and caching the ones he did not eat in silence. By now, the castaway had regained his strength and his build returned to it's normal size. 

Pulling himself from his hole at the sight of the woman he had met on his first day on the island, the Habit felt compelled by some subconscious force to meet her where she walked on the beach. He rose to his feet and crossed the tidal flats until he was near her. She seemed to be searching for something; bits, bobs, and trinkets like the day they had met. The Habit's curiosity as to why the wench had returned to do the same thing weeks later had been effectively piqued. "Shell I gave you not good enough Freckles?" he asked, voice coarse like the sand they tread. "I'm insulted." Of course, he meant it in jest, yet his delivery was completely deadpan.