The night sky stretched out like a velvet cloak sprinkled with stars. Far below, the Oceanus glided gracefully across the Atlantic, its bow cutting through the waters in silence, as if the sea itself made way for it. Under the soft glow of the lanterns, the main deck was alive with elegance. Women in evening gowns chatted in lively clusters; the gentlemen, flawless in their attire, leaned in as they spoke or adjusted their ties with practiced ease. The clink of champagne glasses mingled with the murmur of the waves, forming a subtle and constant symphony.
Leaning against the railing, slightly apart from the commotion, Samuel Rossi gazed at the horizon. His eyes followed the infinite line where sea and sky melted together, as if searching for something within it. He wore a wool coat over his dark suit, and from the breast pocket peeked the chain of an antique pocket watch—his father's heirloom. The barely audible ticking marked the passing of time with quiet stubbornness.
"I never thought I'd cross the Atlantic again," he mused, as a memory—sharp and vivid as a photograph—cut through his mind: the day he left, convinced he would never return.
A breeze tousled his hair. Samuel closed his eyes for a moment. His expression carried a stillness that wasn't entirely real, a subtle gesture blending nostalgia with something harder to name. In the distance, the orchestra from the main hall began to play a waltz. The notes drifted through the air, caressing the deck like an invitation from the past.
Samuel allowed a faint smile to form. Then, with one last glance at the sea, he turned and walked back into the ship, passing through the ornate doors that gleamed like gold under the electric lights.
He didn't know it, but somewhere beneath the waterline, much farther south than any crew member could imagine, a sleeping mountain was waiting. And as the Oceanus sailed on with the confidence of a vessel that had crossed the ocean a thousand times, something deep below had begun to stir.