Date: Friday, the Nineteenth Day of April 1912
Place: Manhattan, New York City
Time: 3:00 PM
The ferry docked in Manhattan with a loud creak of its chains, and the crowd of Titanic survivors shuffled off into the bustling city. The noise hit me first—the rumble of carriages, the chatter of people, and the clang of trolley bells. I clung to Momma’s arm as we stepped onto the street, my legs wobbly after days of sitting in lifeboats, rescue ships, and now ferries.
“Stay close,” Momma said, her voice firm as she tightened her grip on Anneliese’s hand.
The streets were alive with activity. Vendors shouted about fresh fish, ladies bustled in long skirts, and men in suits hurried past, their faces set with purpose. But what caught my attention most were the voices—everywhere, people were talking about the Titanic.
“Did you hear? The unsinkable ship went down!”
“So many lives lost… it’s a tragedy.”
“Did they say how many survivors?”
My heart tightened at every word. It felt strange hearing strangers speak about something that was still so fresh in my mind, as though it belonged to them too.

Time: 3:15 PM
We walked a little farther, and that’s when I saw him—a boy no older than me, standing on a street corner with a stack of newspapers under one arm. His cap was tilted low, and his voice rang out over the noise of the street.
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Titanic disaster—great loss of life!” he shouted, waving a paper in the air. “Get your paper here!”
The headline was in bold, black letters: TITANIC DISASTER: GREAT LOSS OF LIVES.
Momma hesitated for a moment, then handed the boy a coin and took a paper. She folded it under her arm without looking at it and ushered us onward.
“Don’t read that,” she said quietly to Anneliese and me. “You don’t need to see it.”
But I couldn’t help sneaking a glance at the headline again as we walked away. The weight of it pressed down on me like the cold waters of the Atlantic.

Time: 6:45 PM
By the time we reached the shelter arranged by the relief organizations, the sun was beginning to set. The building was small but warm, with cots lined up in neat rows and volunteers bustling about, distributing bowls of soup and slices of bread. It smelled of boiled potatoes and damp wool, but after everything we’d been through, it felt like a palace.
A kind woman with a soft smile showed us to a corner where we could rest. “Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, patting Momma’s arm. “You’re safe here.”
We sat down, the three of us together on one cot. Anneliese stared at the ceiling, her face pale and drawn. Momma tried to coax her into eating a piece of bread, but she just shook her head.
“I’m not hungry,” she said softly.
Momma sighed and turned to me. “What about you, Josephine? You’ve barely eaten all day.”
I wasn’t hungry either, but I took the bread anyway. I knew better than to argue.

Time: 8:30 PM
That night, as the room quieted and most of the survivors fell into uneasy sleep, I lay awake on the cot. Anneliese was beside me, her breathing slow and steady, and Momma sat nearby, her hands folded in her lap. She stared at the newspaper she’d kept tucked under her coat, her eyes scanning the words as though searching for something—someone.
“Are you thinking about Papa?” I asked softly.
She looked up, startled, then nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “And all the others who didn’t make it.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Do you think… do you think he could still be alive? Somewhere?”
Momma’s eyes filled with tears. She reached over and took my hand. “We have to believe he did everything he could,” she said. “Just like we did.”
I nodded, but the ache in my chest didn’t go away.

Time: 11:00 PM
The room was dark and quiet now, save for the occasional rustle of blankets or a muffled cough. I stared at the ceiling, replaying the events of the last few days over and over in my mind. The lifeboat. The freezing water. The screams.
Anneliese stirred beside me, her hand brushing mine. “Josephine?” she murmured.
“Yes?”
“I don’t think I can ever stop hearing them,” she said, her voice trembling. “The screams.”
My throat tightened. “Me neither,” I admitted.
She reached for my hand in the dark, and we held onto each other as the night stretched on. Momma’s soft breathing on the cot next to ours was the only thing that kept me grounded.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook us, and I drifted into a restless sleep, dreaming of stars above a dark, endless ocean.