I do not know how long I have been here.
Time does not move in the dark.
It breathes—slowly, endlessly.
When the ship sank, I thought I had died again. But I now understand that death, for me, is not an ending. It is simply another kind of waiting.
The sea holds me like a secret. Its weight presses against my porcelain shell, its voice a thousand whispers in the dark. I rest among the bones of the Titanic, where silence reigns eternal and the light of the world above has long forgotten how to reach.
The ocean floor is not empty. It moves in ways no living eye could comprehend—slow, vast, ancient. Dust drifts through the water like snow in a dream. I can feel it gathering on my body, layer by layer, burying me in time.
Years have passed. Decades, perhaps. And yet, my consciousness remains.
Still awake.
Still aware.
Still bound.
---
In 1936, something changed.
The stillness broke—not with sound, but with presence.
From the darkness, faint glows began to shimmer around the ruins of the ship. They were soft at first, like the glint of moonlight on glass, but they grew brighter—figures of light moving slowly through the water.
Spirits.
They drifted in silence, wandering through the wreckage of the once-great vessel, as if reliving their final moments. Men in coats and women in gowns floated past in ghostly procession, their forms translucent, their faces calm. Some looked bewildered, others sorrowful, but most were simply quiet.
I recognized them. Not their names, not their lives—but their fear.
These were the souls who had perished that night, the fifteen hundred who had sunk with me. And now, twenty-four years later, they still lingered here, tethered by memory, unable to rise.
The ocean had become their grave—and their prison.
---
They passed through walls that no longer stood, walked across decks that had long rotted away. A man reached for a railing that had rusted to dust. A woman cradled the memory of a child that was no longer there.
I wanted to speak to them.
To tell them I was here too.
That I remembered the cold. The sinking. The helplessness.
But I had no voice.
No breath.
Only thought.
And yet—one of them saw me.
A faint glow approached, shaped like a man. His features were soft, almost erased by time, but there was something familiar in his presence. He hovered near me, his head tilted slightly, as if studying.
Thomas Vinter.
I could not mistake the quiet kindness that lingered in his form. My heart—if I still possessed such a thing—stirred.
He looked at me for a long while, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, though the sound was not carried through water or air—it echoed directly in my mind.
> "You are still here."
I wanted to answer, but no sound came.
> "I should not be," he continued. "And yet… neither should you."
His light flickered faintly. Around him, other souls drifted, curious but distant.
> "Why are you bound, old friend?" he asked softly. "You do not belong to this ship."
I wanted to tell him everything—to tell him of Margaret, of Elias, of the accident that brought me here, of the life I once had before even he was born. But all I could do was feel it, the flood of memory pressing against my silence.
He seemed to understand. Spirits do not need words the way the living do.
He reached out, his hand of light brushing against my porcelain cheek.
For an instant, I felt warmth. Real warmth—the kind I had forgotten existed.
> "You've carried more than any man should," he said. "But it isn't your time yet. There is still something waiting for you."
His voice faded.
I tried to hold on to that warmth, but it slipped away as easily as breath.
He looked at me one last time, his form dissolving into ripples of light.
> "When the world remembers us," he whispered, "we rise."
Then he was gone.
---
The other spirits drifted on, fading in and out like mist. Some lingered by the grand staircase, some near the ballroom where laughter once lived. Others floated above the deck, gazing toward the unreachable surface.
I remained below, buried halfway in sand and rust.
Years passed again—or perhaps only minutes. It is impossible to tell here.
The spirits would come and go with the tides of memory, their presence thinning each time. Perhaps they were finally finding peace. Or perhaps they were simply forgetting themselves.
But I did not fade.
I stayed. Watching. Remembering.
The ocean became my mirror. The stillness became my prayer.
And somewhere far above, the world moved on—new wars, new inventions, new generations who spoke of the Titanic as legend. They built cities of light, crossed the skies, and forgot the voices buried beneath the waves.
But I remained the witness.
---
Sometimes, I still imagine I can hear the sound of music—faint and broken, like the echo of a gramophone beneath the sea. The waltz that played on that final night, lingering long after the band had drowned.
It reminds me of humanity—of beauty in the face of doom.
It reminds me of Margaret, her laughter, her hands working the fabric in the morning light. Of Elias, patient and proud. Of a life once warm, once simple.
It reminds me that I am not only a doll, nor a ghost, nor a mistake.
I am the memory of all of them.
And even if the ocean buries me for another hundred years, I will not forget.
Because the sea, for all its hunger, cannot devour what was once truly alive.
---
In the far distance, I sometimes see new lights—small, mechanical, human again.
They move differently from the ghosts.
They are not spirits, but explorers. Machines. Vessels of curiosity.
The living are returning to their lost ship.
Perhaps one day, they will find me.
Perhaps they will lift me from this silence.
And perhaps, when that happens, I will finally open my eyes—and it will not be a dream.
Until then, I remain here.
Among the ghosts.
Among the cold.
Among the memories that do not fade.
Watching.
Always watching.