The year was 1912, and the world seemed to breathe faster.
The streets outside Elias Boutique had changed—brighter lamps, louder carriages, people who walked as though time itself were chasing them. Fashion had grown bold, and Margaret's shop was now more successful than ever.
But I no longer stood in my familiar place by the window.
Margaret's husband, Thomas, had taken me down one early morning, wrapping me carefully in cloth and string, his hands deliberate but trembling slightly—as if uncertain.
> "You'll be coming with me," he murmured softly, almost to himself.
Margaret watched from the doorway, her expression uneasy.
> "Are you sure it's wise?" she asked. "That man you're meeting—no one knows much about him."
Thomas smiled faintly.
> "He studies craftsmanship. Dolls, automata, all manner of intricate work. He's written about the way art and mechanics can merge into something eternal."
Margaret folded her arms, worry softening into affection.
> "You sound just like Father when you speak like that."
Thomas laughed gently.
> "Then I must be doing something right."
He leaned in and kissed her forehead.
> "I'll be back before you know it."
She nodded, though her eyes never left me—the doll she had inherited, the quiet witness to her family's entire history.
That was the last time I saw her.
---
I spent the journey wrapped in linen, cradled among Thomas's luggage, hearing only muffled sounds—the rattle of carriages, the echo of boots on docks, the calls of sailors.
When the cloth was finally pulled away, I saw it:
A colossal ship, gleaming white under a pale morning sky.
Letters painted across its bow caught the light like polished gold:
R.M.S. TITANIC.
Even from where I sat, motionless and mute, I could sense the enormity of it—the hum of pride, of history in the making. Men and women in fine coats smiled as they boarded, voices bright with excitement.
> The greatest ship ever built, I heard someone say.
A floating palace. A ship that could never sink.
The words struck me like distant thunder.
For I remembered this name.
I remembered the stories, the tragedy written in every history book I had once read when I was still alive.
This was the ship that would never reach its destination.
And I was on it.
---
Thomas placed me in a small cabin near his bunk, propped neatly on a shelf.
He admired me for a moment, his reflection flickering in the mirror beside me.
> "Strange thing," he said quietly. "You've been in our family for generations. And yet, I swear sometimes I feel you're watching me."
If only he knew how right he was.
He smiled and sat down to write a letter—perhaps to Margaret, perhaps to the twins, perhaps to no one at all. The ship's hum vibrated faintly beneath my porcelain shell, like a heartbeat I did not own.
For the next few days, I watched the life of the Titanic unfold.
---
Every morning, passengers filled the corridors—men in crisp suits, women draped in elegance, children laughing as they explored the decks. Music floated through the air, mingling with the scent of the sea.
I saw luxury beyond imagining: chandeliers swaying gently with the motion of the ship, velvet curtains, polished brass, silverware gleaming under candlelight.
Thomas attended dinners, met new acquaintances, and sometimes brought them to his cabin to show me.
> "A family heirloom," he would say proudly. "Over a hundred years old. Look at the craftsmanship—her eyes seem almost alive."
The guests would admire me, their laughter soft and polite. None of them knew that within that porcelain body, a soul from another time listened and remembered every word.
Sometimes, at night, when the ship was quiet, I thought I could hear the deep rumble of the ocean beneath the hull—an ancient sound, heavy and patient. It reminded me of time itself. Endless. Merciless.
And though I had no lungs to breathe, I felt as though the sea was waiting for me.
---
On the night of April 14th, the air grew colder.
The corridors had fallen mostly silent. Thomas sat by the porthole, looking out into the endless dark. He was writing again, his expression thoughtful, almost peaceful.
He paused once, turning his head toward me.
> "You've seen so much, haven't you?" he said softly. "If only you could tell me your stories."
If only I could.
The words echoed through me, and for the briefest moment, I thought I felt a tremor—a faint vibration through the floor.
Then another.
And another.
The pen slipped from his fingers.
A distant sound followed—a low, grinding shudder that tore through the hull like a growl. The lights flickered. Voices began to rise in the corridor.
Then came the unmistakable tilt of gravity shifting beneath us.
Thomas opened the door, stepping out into the chaos.
I watched the doorway, waiting for him to return.
But he never did.
---
Time blurred into confusion. The ship groaned, tilting harder, screaming against the pull of the sea. I could hear shouts, the crash of furniture, the panic of feet running past. Distant cries—of children, of mothers, of men shouting orders lost to the wind.
The great Titanic was breaking.
Water surged through the corridors. I saw it reach the floor of the cabin, dark and merciless, crawling upward. My shelf trembled, then broke loose. I fell—crashing against the floor, shards of light and shadow splitting around me.
Cold. That's what struck me next. A cold deeper than death itself.
As the cabin filled with water, I felt myself lifted, weightless, floating within the flood. My reflection fractured in the rising dark—face staring back at face, expression forever frozen.
Through the porthole, I glimpsed the stars.
They looked the same as they had the night I died the first time.
And then—darkness.
---
The ship sank slowly, painfully, into the black heart of the Atlantic.
Fifteen hundred souls lost to the sea.
Seven hundred ten who lived to tell of it.
Thomas Vinter's name would be among the lost. Margaret would wait for news that would never come.
And I—still silent, still unmoving—descended with the ship, deeper and deeper, until the world above became nothing but memory.
Pressure pressed against my porcelain form, but I did not break. I simply fell—through water, through time, through silence.
The world above me vanished into shadow.
The sea became my sky.
And for the first time in all my years of endless watching, I could not see the light anymore.