Date: Monday, the Fifteenth Day of April 1912
Place: RMS Carpathia - North Atlantic Ocean
Time: Unknown

The Carpathia, its dark hull towering above the lifeboats, seemed almost ethereal in the early light. The crew aboard the rescue ship bustled about, lowering ladders and ropes to help survivors climb aboard.

The men rowing our lifeboat gradually turned to relief as we came alongside the Carpathia. My heart raced as I looked up at the ship, its deck crowded with faces peering down at us. Some held out blankets, others shouted encouragement. A woman wrapped in a shawl called out in French, asking for news of her husband.

Frederick Barrett, who had been our de facto leader, stood to help steady the lifeboat. "Alright, folks," he said, his voice steady but kind. "Let's get you all up there safe and sound."

One by one, we were lifted onto the ship. Momma held Anneliese close as we climbed, her arms trembling but firm. When it was my turn, a young sailor reached down, his face kind but tired. He hoisted me up easily, setting me gently on the deck.

"Welcome aboard, lass," a man said with a weary smile.

As I stepped aside to let others up, I caught my first full glimpse of the Carpathia's deck. It was a flurry of activity. Survivors huddled together under blankets, some sipping from steaming mugs of tea or soup. A nurse moved between them, offering soft words and checking for frostbite.

I spotted Ruth, the girl Anneliese had befriended, already wrapped in a wool blanket and clutching a cup of tea. She waved us over, her eyes wide with relief.

"Anneliese!" she called. "Come sit with me!"

Momma led us to a quieter corner of the deck. She lowered herself onto a bench, pulling me and Anneliese close. Her hands still trembled, and her cheeks were streaked with dried tears, but her eyes shone with gratitude.

"We're safe," she whispered, as if saying it aloud made it more real. "We're safe."

Hours later, the Carpathia still moved carefully through the icy waters, searching for more survivors. I wandered the deck with Anneliese, our hands clasped tightly together. Neither of us wanted to stray too far from Momma.

We passed a group of men speaking in hushed tones, their faces drawn. They gestured toward a pile of lifejackets and debris that had been pulled aboard. Anneliese tugged my sleeve.

"Do you think they found Papa?" she asked, her voice small.

I knelt down and held her shoulders. "I don't know, Anneliese," I said softly. "But we have to be brave, okay? For Momma."

She nodded, her lower lip trembling. I hugged her tightly.

Date: Monday, the Fifteenth Day of April 1912
Place: RMS Carpathia - North Atlantic Ocean

Time: 14:23

By the afternoon, the mood on the Carpathia had shifted. Relief mingled with grief as the scale of the disaster became clear. Survivors exchanged stories, their voices laced with disbelief. Some spoke of loved ones lost, others of miraculous escapes. The bravery of the musicians was a common thread, their final notes still echoing in many memories.

As we sat on a bench sharing a piece of dry bread, a man approached us. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his coat patched and worn. His name was Mr. Andrews, and he'd been one of the shipbuilders aboard the Titanic.

"I couldn't save her," he said quietly, his voice tinged with sorrow. "She was a fine ship."

Momma reached out and touched his arm. "You did everything you could," she said. "You saved lives by helping others into the boats."

He nodded, but his eyes remained distant.

Date: Monday, the Fifteenth Day of April 1912
Place: RMS Carpathia - North Atlantic Ocean
Time: 20:15

That evening, as the Carpathia headed toward New York, we gathered on deck to say prayers for those who had been lost. The captain read from a small Bible, his voice steady despite the chill in the air.

I held Anneliese's hand tightly and bowed my head. The stars above were bright and unyielding, a silent witness to the tragedy. I wondered if Papa was among them now, watching over us.

After the service, as people dispersed to find warmth below deck, I lingered by the rail. The ocean was calm now, the waves lapping gently against the ship. Momma joined me, her arms wrapped around herself.

"We'll be alright," she said, her voice firm. "We have each other."

I nodded, leaning against her. The Carpathia was our salvation, but the journey ahead-one without Papa-felt daunting.

As I looked out over the endless expanse of water, I made a silent promise: I would never forget the Titanic, the lives it carried, and the lessons it left behind. It was more than a ship; it was a reminder of both the fragility and resilience of the human spirit.

And though our lives would never be the same, we would find a way to carry on. Together.

Date: Thursday, the Eighteenth Day of April 1912
Place: RMS Carpathia, New York Harbor
Time: 9:30 AM

The skyline of New York emerged like a mirage through the morning haze, its spires reaching skyward, promising safety and new beginnings. The murmur of voices on the deck of the Carpathia grew louder as passengers crowded to catch their first glimpse of land.

Anneliese clung to my arm, her eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "It looks so big," she whispered.

"It is," I said, though I could feel the same knot of uncertainty tightening in my chest.

Momma stood beside us, her face pale but composed. She adjusted the scarf around her shoulders, a faint determination in her eyes. "This is it, girls," she said softly. "We're here."

As the ship edged closer to the harbor, we could see crowds gathered along the docks. Reporters waved notepads and cameras, shouting questions to those disembarking. Families craned their necks, searching for familiar faces among the weary survivors.

The gangway creaked as it was lowered, and crew members began assisting passengers off the ship. Momma squeezed my hand. "Stay close," she said, her voice firm.

The air was sharp with the tang of salt and the smoke of steamships. As we stepped onto the gangway, a cheer erupted from the crowd. Relief and sorrow mingled in the air, creating a heady cocktail of emotions.

"Welcome to New York!" a man in a bowler hat called out as we stepped onto the dock. His voice was hearty, but his expression sobered as he took in the pale, hollow-eyed faces around him.

We moved cautiously through the throng, the sound of reporters' voices blending into a cacophony.

"Did you see the ship go down?"

"Was there enough warning?"

Momma kept her head high, her grip on Anneliese and me unyielding. "No questions," she said sharply to a man holding a notebook. "We need rest."

A woman in a navy uniform approached, her arms laden with blankets. "Mrs. Hensley?" she asked, glancing at a clipboard. "We've arranged for temporary accommodations for you and your daughters. Please follow me."

Momma nodded, her shoulders sagging slightly in relief. "Thank you."

The woman led us to a waiting carriage. As we climbed inside, Anneliese pressed her face to the window, watching the bustling harbor fade into the distance. I leaned back against the seat, exhaustion washing over me.

For the first time since that terrible night, I felt a glimmer of hope. New York wasn't home, but it was a place to start over. A place to find our footing in a world that no longer included Papa.

As the carriage rattled through the cobblestone streets, Momma looked at us, her face a mixture of exhaustion and resolve. "Girls, we've lost so much," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "But we have each other. That's more than some can say."

Anneliese reached for her hand, and I did the same. "We'll be alright, Momma," I said, echoing the words she had spoken so many times. "We'll make it."

Outside, the city roared to life. Carriages clattered, vendors called out their wares, and the distant whistle of a train pierced the morning air. It was a world far removed from the stillness of the North Atlantic.

And as I looked at Momma and Anneliese, I knew we would face this new world together. The Titanic had taken so much, but it had also taught us something unshakable: we were stronger than we knew.

For the first time since the disaster, I felt a flicker of something unfamiliar—hope.

Afterward, we were ushered into another room for further questioning. A kind-faced woman greeted us with a clipboard.

"Do you have money or valuables with you?" she asked.

Momma shook her head. "Just a few coins. We lost everything else."

The woman nodded, making a note. "Do you have a place to stay in New York?"

"We're traveling to Chicago," Momma said. "Our family lives there-relatives of my late husband. We were planning to stay with them."

The woman smiled. "That's good to hear. We'll make sure you have tickets to continue your journey. Many charities are offering assistance for Titanic survivors."

Momma's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Time: 2:45 PM

By midday, a volunteer from the Red Cross handed Momma a small envelope containing money for food and train tickets to Chicago. Anneliese and I clung to her as we stepped onto the ferry bound for Manhattan.

The city skyline loomed ahead, bustling with life and promise. "We'll take the train tomorrow," Momma said, her voice filled with determination. "We'll be with family soon."

I felt a flicker of hope as I leaned against her side. Chicago wasn't just a destination-it was a chance to rebuild, surrounded by people who cared about us.

As the ferry docked, I squeezed Momma's hand. "We're going to be okay, aren't we?"

She looked down at me, her eyes shining. "Yes, Josephine. We're going to be just fine."