Sarah's three children—Sam, aged eight, Joe, twelve, and Anne, ten—lay in their beds, their cheeks still flushed with the warmth of life. At a glance, they seemed to be just simply asleep, the soft rise and fall of breath only just missing from their small, still forms. But as I drew closer, the awful truth revealed itself: they were gone. 

Only hours earlier, I had played with them in the playroom reserved for the children of NOAH 1. Sam had darted about, giggling as he made me chase after a stick with a fake mouse tethered to it by a string. Joe, full of boyish energy, had engaged in a spirited game of pickleball with another boy his age, while Anne, ever the quiet observer, sat on the sidelines with a book in hand, occasionally turning a page. That was today—now, as I stared at their lifeless forms, it felt like a memory from a lifetime ago. 

Captain Francis, accompanied by petty officer Alan and a steward, gently lifted me from where I lay on Joe’s chest and passed me to Alan, a dark-haired young woman who often fed me and allowed me to call her suite my own and sleep beside her on her bed. Then, Francis ordered the steward to fetch the doctor and the body bags, for the children's bodies would soon need to be removed, and the suite sealed off. 

The news of Mrs. Kelping’s fatal jump reached the captain quickly. The lively celebration in the ballroom faltered, confusion rippling through the crowd before falling into shocked stillness.

“Why rob the children of life?” Francis said softly, his voice breaking, his hand over his bearded face. “Sarah committed a damnable act. Such selfishness—it’s unthinkable.”

He stood motionless by one of the children's beds, staring down at the body in stunned disbelief, while Alan lowered herself into a chair, gently settling me onto her lap. 

“She left a note,” Alan replied quietly, lifting a folded letter from the desk, her other arm cradling me. 

“Read it.” 

I peered at the letter, curious to know of Sarah’s final thoughts. The paper was not fashioned from the bark of trees, as in the days of old—trees had long since vanished from our desolate world. Instead, the note was crafted from the stretched and dried skin of fish, and the words upon it had been inscribed in the deep black of squid ink, applied with the sharpened tip of a fishbone. 

Alan began to read the letter, her hands trembling slightly, her voice faltering as she tried to keep her composure:

To whoever finds this letter,

Seven hundred days have passed since the day Louis and his scavenger crew were due to return home. I know the rule of thumb states that after three years, a scavenger crew or anyone else lost at sea can be safely presumed dead.

They may very well return at any moment between now and then, for it’s possible for scavengers to lose their way in this vast, volatile sea world—so unforgiving, so hostile to us all! But that knowledge offers little comfort to a wife and her children. I had hoped the pain would ease with time, that each day might bring a sliver of peace. But I was wrong. It grows more unbearable, the weight of it sinking my soul deeper and deeper into nothingness. I often wonder if there’s a bottom to this despair, or if I’ll continue to fall forever.

Please extend my gratitude to Officer Alan, who offered us some comfort by sharing an epic poem she had learned as a child. It was the tale of a man who, after ten years of battle as a soldier, became lost at sea and found himself swept into strange and wondrous adventures as he sought his way home. Meanwhile, his wife and son waited faithfully for his return, the wife fending off suitors as she remained true to her one and only. 

After twenty long years, the family was finally reunited. This story captivated the children, lifting their spirits, and, for a brief time, it eased my own worries, allowing me to imagine that my Louis, too, was out there, battling through his own adventures and finding his way back to us.

But that is just a stupid fantasy, not reality. I can’t go on like this—I can’t wait another year for Captain Francis to officially declare my husband and his crew dead. The awful truth I can no longer deny is that my Louis is gone. Pretending otherwise, feeding my children the false hope that their father might someday return—I can’t do it anymore. Each time I lie to them, it breaks my heart a little more, until there’s almost nothing left of it. And so I’ve made my decision: if Louis cannot come home to us, then we will go to him. We’ll be reunited, one way or another.

Yours truly,

Sarah Kelping