"Cann!bal, the Forgotten Islands"

 Received at 3:33AM from a rusted radio buoy floating off the edge of remembered history.

"They weren’t on any map anymore. But someone kept dreaming about them."

The islands of Cann!bal aren’t listed. (Find it in the destination guide, but shhh.)
Not on tourist brochures. Not in world atlases.
They appear in dreams, in fever, in a flicker of static just between radio stations.
Some say you can only find them when you’ve lost something important, like trust or your second self.

They aren’t named Cannibal because of people-eating.
No, it’s far stranger than that.
They consume your memories.
Bit by bit. Bite by bite.

Cann!bal is a chain of atolls wrapped in inland mist and outer lies.
The water glows wrong. The waves hum backward.
Sometimes, postcards wash ashore from people who were never there. You might recognize the handwriting.
Erma once found mushrooms on the shore that whispered your ex's name.
Raine Solara once reported from the main island but came back speaking in riddles and sand.

SURVIVOR NOTES:
"Don’t eat the fruit. Don’t answer the statues."
The monkeys know something but will only communicate via improvised charades.
There’s a chapel with no door where you can leave offerings. Or regrets.
A lizard named Tarp runs the only bar, "The Gullet,"  and serves drinks made from things you’ve forgotten you miss.

“I forgot who I was for three hours. It was a relief.” Casey
“There was a version of me already living there. They were kinder.” Anjelikka
“I met a woman who said she remembered dying there. In 1924. She offered me soup.” Bun
“⁂¤π∴ kept vanishing and reappearing slightly happier.” Dandy

Cann!bal isn’t a place. It’s a reckoning. It’s what happens when memory grows teeth and nostalgia asks for seconds. If you wake up with sand in your shoes and a seashell that hums your name…you’ve been there.
And part of you stayed.
Stay alert.
Stay curious.
And if someone offers you stew, ask where the recipe came from.