New Horizons

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Date: Tuesday, The Sixteenth Day of April 1912
Place: RMS Carpathia – North Atlantic Ocean
Time: Early Morning

I don't remember climbing aboard the Carpathia.

One moment I was rocking in the lifeboat, listening to the men sing and watching the lights of the rescue ship draw closer—
and the next, I was being lifted into the air by strong arms, wrapped in scratchy wool, and pressed against someone's coat.

Everything was blurry.

The deck was loud—voices everywhere, people crying, coughing, calling out names that never got answered. The sky had turned gray. The stars were gone.

"Keep moving," someone shouted. "There's coffee below."

"Blankets here! We need more for the children!"

I didn't see Papa. I kept looking, even though I knew I wouldn't find him.

The lifeboats were being hauled up, one after another, like ghosts arriving from the sea.

I felt Momma's hand on my back, guiding me. Her face looked pale and tight, like she was holding everything inside.

Anneliese was holding my other hand. She looked up at me with red, tired eyes. Neither of us said anything. We didn't have to.

The ship smelled like coal smoke and wet clothes and salt. Every inch of it was packed with people—people who had made it, and people who still didn't understand how they had.

I couldn't stop thinking about the ones who hadn't.

We were shown below deck to a warm, crowded room. There were blankets, and tea, and something hot to drink that tasted bitter but felt good going down. I sat against the wall with Anneliese and Lucie, my doll, pressed tight against my chest.

A stewardess came over and wrapped another blanket around me without saying anything. She looked like she had been crying too.

Someone tried to ask us our names, and where we were going.

I didn't answer.

I was too tired.

Too sad.

Too full of thoughts I didn't have words for.

We were safe now. But safe didn't feel the way I thought it would.

Someone gave me a piece of bread. I didn't want it, but I took it because I didn't want to seem rude.

Anneliese tore off a bit and chewed slowly. Her eyes were empty—not sad, not angry, just... gone.

We sat curled together on the floor while Momma spoke to a man in a dark coat who had a notebook. I think he was asking about our ticket, where we were headed, who was missing.

I already knew who was missing.

Papa.

I hadn't heard Momma say his name. Not once. But when she finished talking, she just walked back over to us and sat down quietly.

No tears. No words.

Just quiet.

Someone passed by with a tin mug of tea and spilled a little. The drops hit my skirt and made me flinch. I hadn't realized how tightly I was holding Lucie. My hands ached.

"You alright, sweetheart?" a woman asked gently. She knelt beside me. She had dark eyes and a kind smile, but I didn't answer her.

She tucked a blanket tighter around me anyway. "You just rest. You're safe now."

Safe.

Everyone kept using that word like it was supposed to fix something.

Safe didn't mean whole. Safe didn't bring Papa back.

"Do you think he got on another boat?" Anneliese whispered suddenly.

I blinked.

"Papa," she said. "Do you think he's on one of the other boats?"

I wanted to say yes.

I wanted to lie.

But I just shook my head and looked away.

"I don't know," I whispered.

She didn't say anything after that.

The room was packed, wall to wall. People wrapped in coats and wet wool, huddled close to one another, some still in lifebelts, like they were afraid to take them off.

A man nearby was coughing badly, while a woman rubbed his back and murmured in French. A child sat beside them holding a pair of shoes that were far too big for him.

All of us had something we were holding onto.

Shoes. A blanket. A doll.

A name.

Place: RMS Carpathia – Refugee Quarters
Time: That Evening

It didn't feel like a ship.

Not the way Titanic had.

There was no music, no polished staircases, no adventure. Just crowded rooms and tired voices and the smell of damp wool and salt.

Some people talked. Some didn't. Some cried.

I just sat, watching the same corner of the room, until I didn't remember what I was looking at anymore.

Anneliese had finally fallen asleep with her head in Momma's lap. Lucie was tucked beneath her arm like a second sister. Momma looked down at both of us, her eyes unreadable.

"I think Papa's still out there," I whispered.

I don't know why I said it. I didn't believe it. Not really.

Momma didn't answer.

The ship swayed gently under us, just enough to make me feel like I was floating—not on water, but on memories.

I saw Papa's face. Not the last one, on the deck. The one from the cabin, telling me stories and taking off his coal-soaked boots.

I blinked, and it was gone.

Dinner came, but it didn't feel like dinner. Just hot broth and a biscuit. The kind of food they give people who are sick or sad.

Later, a steward came by and said we could lie down in a cabin. It wasn't ours, not really—just one someone offered us for the night.

Momma said thank you. I couldn't speak.

The walls were plain. The bed was stiff.

I curled up beside Anneliese, still wrapped in the blanket from the lifeboat. Momma sat in a chair by the door, rubbing her hands together over and over.

Momma sat in a chair by the door, rubbing her hands together over and over

"Will we still go to... that place?" Anneliese asked. Her voice was small, like it was afraid to make noise.

Momma nodded faintly. "Somewhere near where the family lives. Not far from a big city, I think."

That was the plan.

The plan from before.

Before everything changed.

We had tickets. We had dreams.

We had Papa.

I closed my eyes, but I didn't sleep right away.

My heart was still back there—floating in the cold, dark sea.

That night, I dreamed of the piano.

Not the small one in second class, but the grand one—the shining one. The one I played for Captain Smith.

But I wasn't playing a song.

The keys were all underwater.

Each note bubbled when I touched it. Sound didn't come out—just silence, and little bursts of foam.

The ship was tilted again. I was standing sideways, playing, and the water was rising up around my legs. The walls were glass. I could see fish swimming outside.

Papa was there, standing by the door. But he wouldn't come in.

"Come on," I said. "Come listen."

He smiled, but he looked tired. So tired.

"I have to stay," he said. "This room won't play music without someone watching it."

I ran toward him, but the floor turned to ocean. My hands were full of seaweed. I dropped Lucie.

The ship groaned.

The piano broke in half.

And Papa was gone.

I woke with a gasp. My heart was pounding. I sat up too fast and hit my head on the edge of the wall behind the bunk.

The room was dark.

But warm.

It was real.

I heard Anneliese breathing beside me, curled under the blanket. Lucie was still in her arms.

Momma was asleep, too—slouched in the chair with her arms crossed. She looked like she hadn't moved at all.

I sat for a while, trying not to cry. My chest hurt, like my tears were stuck behind my ribs.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin and watched the small patch of light coming from the hallway through the open crack in the door.

The Carpathia creaked.

Not like Titanic did. Not big and elegant. Just small. Alive.

A ship that moved like it still had a purpose.

I remembered hearing someone earlier—one of the men—say that we'd reach land soon.

I didn't know what land meant anymore.

Not really.

Not without Papa.

But it had to mean something.

Because the ship was still sailing.

And I was still here.

Date: Wednesday, The Seventeenth Day of April 1912
Place: RMS Carpathia – Upper Deck Corridor
Time: Just After Sunrise

The next morning came slowly.

There was no loud bell, no sudden call. Just footsteps. Quiet ones. The soft shuffle of tired shoes on tired floors.

I blinked awake. My neck hurt.

The blanket was still wrapped around me, damp from sleep and salt.

Anneliese was snoring gently beside me. Lucie hadn't moved from her arms.

I slipped off the bunk as carefully as I could and crept to the cabin door.

It was already cracked open.

The hallway outside was dim but full of soft yellow light. It smelled like old varnish, salt, and tea.

I stepped out barefoot, holding the blanket tight around my shoulders.

I didn't go far. Just a few steps to a small bench tucked along the wall. I sat there and listened.

The ship made a soft humming sound—like it was tired but still trying.

A woman passed by with red-rimmed eyes and a tray of cups. A steward whispered something to her, and she nodded without answering.

Two men stood near the far end of the hall, speaking quietly in another language. One of them looked at me for a moment—not unkindly—but didn't say anything.

I liked that.

I didn't want to talk.

I just wanted to sit where the light was.

A little while later, someone sat beside me. I didn't look up right away.

"I couldn't sleep either," said a voice.

It was a girl, maybe nine or ten. She had thick brown hair in two braids and a dress that looked a size too big for her.

"I'm Margaret," she said. "My papa didn't make it either."

I nodded slowly. Still didn't speak.

"I heard there were dogs on board," she added, almost like she wasn't sure if it was okay to say something not-sad. "I wish I had seen one."

"There were," I said softly. "I saw a man walking a little dog near the stairs."

She smiled a little.

We didn't say anything else after that.

We just sat.

The bench wasn't comfortable. The ship still rocked a little. But for the first time since we left the lifeboat, I didn't feel like I was about to cry.

Date: Wednesday, The Seventeenth Day of April 1912
Place: RMS Carpathia – Dining Saloon (Refugee Section)
Time: Around Eight O'Clock in the Morning

The dining room was nothing like the one on Titanic.

There were no white tablecloths, no flower vases, no warm light shining through polished glass. Just rows of plain wooden tables, benches, and chipped mugs clinking quietly against saucers.

We were seated at the end of one long table, close to a window that showed nothing but gray sky and the endless ocean.

I sat next to Anneliese, who hadn't said much since waking up.

She rested her chin on her hand and stared at her tea.

Lucie was on her lap again, dressed now in a little scrap of handkerchief someone had helped us tie into a dress.

Momma sat across from us, cupping her mug like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes looked far away.

I stirred my tea even though I wasn't planning to drink it. There was a piece of dry bread and a scoop of porridge on a tin plate in front of me.

I hadn't touched either.

Anneliese poked her bread with her spoon.

"You should eat something," Momma said softly.

"I'm not hungry," Anneliese murmured.

Momma didn't press.

Neither did I.

Around us, people whispered. Some were praying. Some sat alone, staring at nothing.

A woman across from us wiped her nose with a cloth and asked if anyone had heard how many boats had been picked up. Someone beside her shook their head.

I kept my eyes on my tea.

A steward walked past and said something in a cheerful voice, trying too hard. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

I finally took a bite of bread.

It was dry, and it stuck to the roof of my mouth. But it was something.

"Did you sleep alright?" Momma asked us. Her voice was gentle.

Anneliese shrugged. "I had a dream, but I don't remember it."

I didn't answer. I didn't want to talk about my dream.

We ate in silence after that.

Somewhere in the room, someone dropped a cup. It clattered to the floor and made me jump.

Anneliese reached for my hand. I gave it to her without saying anything.

We just sat there—three girls, sitting at the edge of a broken world, trying to eat breakfast like it was just another day.

Anneliese was still holding my hand when a woman approached our table.

She looked tired in the way that only mothers get—shoulders heavy, eyes older than her face. She wore a worn shawl and carried two mugs of tea, one in each hand.

"Mind if we join you?" she asked gently.

Momma looked up and nodded. "Of course."

The woman set down the mugs and gestured for two little girls to sit at the other end of the bench. They looked close to my age.

"My name's Mary Abbott," the woman said softly. "This is Ruth, and that's Eugenie."

"Sarah," Momma replied, her voice quiet. "These are my girls—Josephine and Anneliese."

Mrs. Abbott offered a tired smile. "It's good... having them with you."

Momma nodded once. "Yes."

"I had to leave my husband behind," Mrs. Abbott continued, staring into her tea. "He told us to go. Said he'd find another boat."

She didn't say anything after that for a long time.

Ruth and Eugenie sat close together, sipping slowly from their mugs. One of them had a biscuit she broke into small pieces.

"We were in the lifeboat most of the night," Mrs. Abbott said finally. "I don't know what kept me from going mad. I just kept touching their shoulders, to make sure they were still there."

Anneliese looked over at them. "Did your papa play piano?"

Mrs. Abbott's mouth twitched like she might smile, but her eyes shimmered. "No, sweetheart. But he was very kind. He always made sure we had a blanket before bed."

No one spoke after that for a while.

I glanced over at Ruth. She looked at me but didn't say anything either. She just pushed her biscuit crumb to the side of her plate.

"I cried a lot," I whispered.

Mrs. Abbott heard me. "So did I."

She looked right at me when she said it.

And I believed her.

The tea had gone cold by the time I finished half of it.

Ruth and Eugenie were still sitting across from me and Anneliese, their hands curled around their mugs like they didn't want to let go.

Ruth glanced up. "What's her name?" she asked, pointing to the doll.

"Lucie," I said.

"She's pretty."

I gave a small smile. "Thank you."

"She looks brave," Ruth added.

"She is," I whispered. "She made it off the ship too."

Eugenie, who had been silent the whole time, reached into her coat and pulled out a little crocheted bear. Its stuffing was coming out a bit on one side, but she held it close like it was the most important thing in the world.

"This is Fritzi," she said quietly.

I nodded. "Lucie and Fritzi can be friends."

Eugenie smiled for the first time.

Across the table, Mrs. Abbott and Momma exchanged a look. It wasn't exactly a smile, but it was something softer than anything I'd seen from either of them that day.

"Would it be alright," Mrs. Abbott asked gently, "if we stayed near you for a while? Just until we get to... wherever it is we're going next."

Momma nodded. "I'd like that."

Mrs. Abbott let out the smallest breath of relief.

Later that afternoon, the six of us found space on the upper deck.

It was cold, but the sky had cleared a little, and the air smelled less of smoke and more like salt and sunlight.

The grown-ups sat on a bench against the wall. They didn't talk much.

We sat on the floor, under our blankets, and used a biscuit tin lid as a surface to play jacks.

"Lucie can be the referee," Ruth said.

"And Fritzi can be the prize," Eugenie added.

Anneliese giggled for the first time since we left Titanic.

My heart lifted, just a little.

We didn't talk about the ship. We didn't talk about Papa. Or the lifeboat. Or the screaming.

We just played.

And for a while, it almost felt like we weren't in the middle of the ocean anymore.

Place: RMS Carpathia – Upper Deck
Time: Late Afternoon

The sun was starting to dip behind a curtain of gray clouds, tinting the sky a pale gold.

We were still playing jacks, though slower now. Our fingers were cold. The biscuit tin lid had started to dent.

Lucie and Fritzi were wrapped in a blanket, sitting side by side, like they were watching us.

A few steps behind us, Momma and Mrs. Abbott sat on the bench, speaking in low voices.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But it was quiet, and the wind carried just enough of their words.

"I haven't told them yet," Mrs. Abbott said. "About their father."

Momma didn't answer right away.

"I keep hoping maybe someone will say his name. That they saw him on another boat. That he's below deck or... or that I missed him somehow in the chaos."

"I know," Momma whispered.

"They don't understand yet. Ruth... she still thinks he'll meet us in New York."

There was a pause. Then:

"My eldest is like that too," Momma said. "She hasn't asked yet. But I know it's coming."

"Maybe if we keep walking forward, the questions won't catch up."

They both laughed a little at that—dry, breathless laughter. The kind you make when crying would hurt too much.

I didn't turn around. I didn't want them to know I heard.

But I felt something in my chest tighten.

Anneliese didn't hear. She was busy trying to flick a jack upright with one finger.

Ruth had stopped playing. She was just staring out at the sea.

I didn't say anything.

I just reached for Lucie and held her tight again.

Date: Wednesday, The Seventeenth Day of April 1912
Place: RMS Carpathia – Refugee Dining Area and Cabin
Time: Evening

Dinner came just as the lamps were being lit.

It was still simple—vegetable broth, bread, and stewed potatoes—but it was warm, and it filled the space with a smell that almost felt like home.

We sat at the same table as that morning—our two families side by side. Ruth and Eugenie had taken to Anneliese quickly, and the three of them shared the corner of the bench, knees knocking beneath the table.

Lucie and Fritzi had seats, too. One on either side of the plate.

The girls giggled softly when someone gave Lucie a spoon.

Momma and Mrs. Abbott talked a little more now. Not much, but enough. I saw Momma smile again—just a little.

I tried the stewed potatoes. They were mushy and plain, but I ate every bite.

"You've got some color back," Mrs. Abbott said, nudging Ruth gently. "Maybe you'll finally stop pretending to be a ghost."

"I wasn't pretending," Ruth whispered, but she grinned.

After dinner, we all moved quietly through the corridors back to our assigned cabin.

It was small—barely enough room for two beds and a trunk—but someone had brought in a second blanket while we were gone.

Momma let me and Anneliese share one bed again. Ruth and Eugenie curled up on the floor beside us, their coats used as pillows.

Mrs. Abbott laid down a blanket on the wooden floor near the door and stretched out with a soft sigh.

The room was warm from body heat. Someone had left a small oil lamp burning.

"Can we sing something?" Anneliese asked suddenly.

"Not too loud," Momma said. "People are resting."

So we whispered a lullaby. The same one Papa used to hum.

It didn't sound the same.

But it was something.

Lucie was tucked between me and Anneliese, her little stitched eyes staring up at the wooden ceiling.

"I miss him," I whispered.

"I know," Anneliese said.

Momma didn't say anything. But I heard her breath catch. Just once.

Then the room went quiet again.

Outside, the ship groaned and creaked. The ocean was still endless. But the stars had come back.

And somehow... that helped.