The crushing black darkness. The debris-littered, sandy bottom of the ocean. Pushing through the curtain-like darkness, ghostly remnants lay innumerably beneath two and a half miles of crushing North Atlantic waters, covered by the waves and forgotten by the expanse of time, telling the unknown stories of forgotten people. 1

It had been night of windless cold of which no one can ever tell the truth of every story, of every struggle. No one will ever be able to shed the light upon that night. 2

The untold stories still lie at the bottom of the sea, a boy’s boot, laces untied. A pair of glasses resting in the sand. A china plate, chipped along one edge lies upside down aside a no longer shining glass which nearly a century before had held red wine which was never drunk.3

A massive hull comes as ghost from the darkness, railings still running along the bow and down the sides. Coming up over the bow rail and down the deck, appears what used to be the steering wheel, the wood long deteriorated. All that’s left is the stand on which the wheel once stood, held by the hands of the crew.4

Slowly, oh so slowly, is this fading away. Eventually… it will be nothing but dust, the bronze propellers the only things remaining. The stories will never be told, and the truths will never be learned. That night will forever remain a mystery, unsolvable and the legacy lasting as long as the questions.5