Titanic Embers

Voyage Recalled

Suddenly, Lovett no longer feared the old man who had once commanded storms in his day.

“Preparing to return to the Titanic?” Lovett asked softly, as though afraid to awaken something fragile.

The old man nodded.

On a large screen, the bearded Louis projected a three-dimensional simulation of the Titanic’s final moments, a meticulous reconstruction of her sinking.

“…On that fateful day, the starboard bow struck the iceberg,” Louis narrated like a seasoned guide, describing the disaster in such vivid detail it was as though he had witnessed it himself. Indeed, after countless analyses and trials, not only Louis but all who had seen the reconstruction believed it to be the truth.

Lovett kept his eyes fixed on the old man, ready to switch off the screen at the slightest sign of distress.

The old man gazed at the display with casual detachment, listening, his eyes narrowing slightly.

On the screen, the ship began to list; the spectators held their breath. The scene was so real, it felt as though they were there.

Louis spoke with clipped precision, each word shadowed by a chilling weight of dread and tension.

The lifelike narration and images held the room in a spellbound hush.

The ship broke apart at midsection—her bow plunging first, then her stern.

The last scrap of hull vanished beneath the waves; the Titanic was gone.

Yet, at this vision of final tragedy, the old man’s face remained unchanged, like a weathered cliff unmoved by the sea.

Louis’s coppery moustache twitched upward in satisfaction. “Spectacular, isn’t it?”

He was clearly proud—eager to unveil what should have remained confidential.

“Thank you for your thorough analysis. Of course, when one experiences it in person, the feeling is… entirely different.” The old man rose, his tone edged with restrained anger. “Science and technology can recreate anything in this world—anything but the human heart.”

Louis froze.

Lovett quickly offered an apology. “Forgive us—we did not consider your feelings…”

Carl suddenly smiled, the anger gone without a trace. “Fortunately, Jack is not here.”

“Jack…”

The old man gestured toward the cold, untroubled expanse of the North Atlantic.

“Before he died, he asked me to scatter his ashes into the ocean—he said it was where we first met.”

Lovett stared. Edward stared. Everyone stared.

The old man seemed not to notice, his eyes returning to the screen.

In an instant, time reversed before him—monochrome gloom blossomed into a world of colour and life.

It was the same door—yet now it gleamed with gilded splendour, its carved wood adorned with twining motifs, two waiters in immaculate livery bowing with practiced grace and cordial smiles…

It was only a fleeting vision, yet so vivid it felt within reach.

When it faded, only the rust-eaten remnant of the door remained, barely recognisable.

He closed his eyes—whether to shield himself from the cruel contrast or to hold the memory a moment longer, none could say.

Looking at his dark, time-creased face, Lovett and Edward saw in their minds the rugged bark and curved rings of an ancient pine. In every fissure lay a history, a memory, a story that stirred the soul; in every ring, countless secrets, countless wonders, countless sagas of rise and fall.

Even in ruin, the great fractured hull retained a strange, morbid beauty. When the light swept across her, the golden letters—three feet high—still shimmered with pride: TITANIC.

“Eighty-four years have passed. Jack has been gone eighteen. A pity—China and the United States did not establish relations until 1979. We never saw the Great Wall, the Forbidden City, the gardens of Suzhou or the Summer Palace. Jack regretted that deeply.”

Lovett hesitated, then asked with difficulty, “May I be so bold as to inquire about your connection with Mr. Dawson…?”

“He was my beloved. We married in Holland in 1971.” The reply came without hesitation, the sharpness in his gaze softening into a tenderness that lingered at the brow and the corner of the eyes. “Would you like to hear my story—the story long hidden from the world?”

Gradually, the deep-blue waters grew clear, as though some enchanted hand had swept away the veil of the sea and the cloud from the mind’s eye. As the vision sharpened, the wreck rose from the depths—renewed, pristine. Sunlight bathed her decks, the air alive with the bustle of voices… and in the old man’s telling, time turned back eighty-four years—

To April 10, 1912, a bright day, and before them, the dream of the Industrial Age embarking upon her maiden voyage—Titanic.