The world has turned hostile. More and more people dream of disappearing — of building something beyond the greed of capitalism and the pull of populism.

You chose to start over. To build a place where happiness matters more than wealth, and money no longer measures a good life.

Then a letter came from London. The Crown had an island to sell: Inaccessible, four kilometres of cliffs in the middle of the South Atlantic, a plateau of tussock above them, and on its one sheltered slope an old research station, abandoned years ago and slowly falling to ruin.

Twice before, people had tried to live there.
Twice they gave up.

Nobody else had answered.

Sleepless nights. Doubt. Endless calculations.
Then you took the train to London.

This is how it began.