I padded softly to his side, instinct guiding my steps. Circling in his lap, I nestled against his small frame, pressing my head to his shoulder with a gentle nuzzle. In that simple act, I hoped to offer a comfort beyond words, a silent assurance to brace him for the truth that loomed like a distant storm, heavy and inevitable. 

“Can you tell me what you did earlier today?” Alan asked, her voice steady, though concern lingered beneath the surface. “Where you were, and what you did before you went to bed.”

Sam reached out and gathered me into his small arms, his fingers scratching tenderly at the top of my head. “After breakfast, we went up to the main deck for a walk and fresh air,” he began, his voice soft, as though trying to recall a dream just out of reach.

“Who were you with?” Alan inquired, her tone gentle but probing. 

“Momma, Joe, and Anne,” he answered, his grip tightening around me, as if drawing strength from my presence. “And Page, too. On the way up to the deck, I saw him chasing a rat. The poor thing looked so scared. So I picked up Page and took him with us. I didn’t want him to kill that poor rat.”

Alan let out a soft chuckle, a brief ripple of warmth in the otherwise somber air. “Well, that’s one of Page’s duties on the ship—to keep order and cleanliness.”

“I know…” Sam murmured, his voice trailing off. 

Alan’s expression grew more serious, her eyes narrowing slightly as she ventured into darker waters. In a graver tone, she asked, “How was your mother? Did she seem any different from other days?” Her words gently nudged the boy's memory.

“Not more than usual. Momma would lean against the rail, staring off into the horizon, as if at any moment she might catch sight of Dad’s boat.”

Sam paused, sinking back into his pillow, the shadow of sorrow darkening his young face. “I used to stand beside her, waiting in silence, hoping. I believed, like she did, that he’d come back.” 

Memories of those strolls on the main deck with the Kelping family began to resurface in my mind. Sarah, adrift in her sorrow, lingered by the rail, her thoughts lost in the endless waves as she searched for a sign of her lost husband—nothing more than a mirage wavering on the horizon. Hours would slip away unnoticed, the sun dipping low and casting long shadows, until dinner's call drifted through the ship’s speakers.

Joe and Anne, once eager companions on these walks, had grown weary of these vigils. The deck, once alive with their playful chatter, had become a place of mourning, a reminder of something lost. Tiring of their mother’s endless reverie, they would slip away—silent as wraiths— to the playroom below, where the world still offered the innocent solace of laughter and games. 

Sam, the youngest, stayed behind, a silent sentinel by his mother’s side clinging to the last vestiges of familial duty. Yet even his patience had its limits. He had given in to the pull of his siblings' escape, leaving Sarah alone, a solitary figure against the fading light, her children now gone like the mist.

“But in these last few days,” Sam went on, “I started to feel, deep down, that Dad was lost to the sea, and it might be years—if ever—before he returned. Just like in the story you told us– the Odyssey.” His voice faltered, as if the weight of that realization had only just begun to settle, a truth as cold and overwhelming as the ocean itself. 

"You can never be certain," Dr. Willis mused, his voice both cautious and hopeful. "The scavengers have been lost at sea before, but somehow, against all odds, they always find their way back home.”

“But never this long before.”

“True, but I trust your father's knowledge of the sea and excellent navigation skills.”

“What did you and your brother and sister do later in the evening?” Alan asked, pressing on.

“When the dinner bell sounded, Joe went up to get Momma from the promenade deck,” answered Sam. “We all had dinner at the mess hall, and then we went back to our cabin. Momma said she had something special for us. It was a sweet drink, something she bought from the market in Floating City the other day.”

“Did she mention who sold her the drink or where she got it from?”

“No, she didn’t say a word, but I remember the day she took us to the city. She handed Joe some coins so we could buy fish cakes while she went to the apothecary to take care of something.”

“Which apothecary are you referring to?”

"The one near the vendor who sells fish cakes and starfish.”

Dr. Willis tilted his head, a look of recognition dawning on his face. “Ah, I believe I know the place you're talking about. It’s fairly new, probably hasn't been open for more than a year.”

“Do you know the owner?” Alan asked. 

“Not well. But I did encounter him once. Quite an odd character…”

“In what way?”

"He’s a quiet man," Dr. Willis explained, "always cloaked in a hooded jacket, his face hidden behind a gas mask attached to an oxygen tank he drags around. As far as I know, no one who’s met him has ever seen his face." He then turned to Sam. "Did you get a chance to see him?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I didn’t. But she stayed there for quite a while. When she was done, we wandered through the city together, eating fish cakes, though Anne got the roasted starfish. It had been ages since we did anything like that. That’s when I knew everything was going to be okay.”

Just as Alan began to voice another question, Dr. Willis cleared his throat. His hand rose gently but firmly, a silent command that halted her words mid-breath. 

“Let’s give Sam a bit more rest,” he said, before turning to his young patient. “I’ll inform the captain of your condition, and tomorrow, there’s something he wishes to discuss with you.”

The doctor rose to his feet and wished the boy a good night's sleep before quietly exiting the room. Alan, too, was on the verge of leaving when Sam, with a tremor in his voice, begged her to stay and tell him a bedtime story. Sleep had eluded him, and fear clung to him like a shadow, even though I was curled up beside him, my purring offering little comfort. But I suppose a cat’s soft purrs can’t spin a wild tale the way a human voice can.

“What story would you like to hear?” Alan asked, settling back into the chair by the bedside.

Sam paused, his brow furrowed in thought, before finally answering, “The Great Wrath.”

Alan’s eyebrow arched in surprise. “Are you sure? You don’t think it might be too dark, too depressing? It was, after all, one of the greatest disasters our world has ever known.”

He shook his head and pulled the blanket up to his chin. “I’m sure,” he replied with certainty.

I rested my head on his lap, my eyes closing as Alan began to tell Sam the story. I had heard many stories, many times before from many different people and creatures—survivors who had lived through the deluge and its aftermath, and toiled for decades to piece together the fragments of a drowned world. From them, each one like a shard of shattered glass, I pieced together a grim mosaic—one that spoke of wrath and ruin, of human folly and the merciless forces that swept across the land, leaving nothing but desolation in their wake.