In Liverpool, it rains about three hundred days a year.
The remaining sixty-five days are just waiting for it to rain.
Link sat in a rented Ford, staring blankly at the curtain of rain outside. The weather felt exactly like this trip to the UK—no sign of clear skies anywhere.
Two weeks.
He and Band had crisscrossed Belfast's archives, old shipyard sites, and dockside warehouses, and they'd come up empty every single time.
Link looked down at the last address in his hand.
"St. Jude's Care Home."
His voice was so low it almost dissolved into the rain.
If this led nowhere too, then this whole trip really would turn into a pilgrimage for nothing.
Band had a cigarette dangling from his mouth while flipping through a ridiculously thick Directory of British Marine Engineers.
"Link , I swear, if we strike out again, we're really going to have to do what James said—start digging up graves."
Link smiled faintly, his expression as thin as the mist outside.
"Maybe we really will."
He stepped on the gas. The engine growled, headlights slicing through the rain.
They drove straight into that gray world.
—
The care home was quieter than he expected.
The hallway smelled of disinfectant and old wood. The steady tick-tock of a pendulum clock stretched thin lines through the air.
Band leaned in and whispered, "This place is quiet like a hospital morgue. You sure the guy we're looking for is still alive?"
"Shut up," Link said without slowing down. "Only living people need rehab."
"Fair enough." Band shrugged, hands up in surrender. "Let's just hope his brain's still alive."
They found Mr. Hall in the common room.
An old man so thin he looked like a shadow, slumped in a wheelchair, eyes empty.
"Mr. Hall?" Band leaned forward.
No response.
Link crouched down and pulled out an old photograph—Harland and Wolff Shipyard.
In the picture, a massive hull loomed over workers riveting steel plates into place.
He spoke softly. "Sir… did your father work here?"
The old man's eyes shifted slightly. His lips trembled.
His voice came out blurred, stuck in a stubborn loop.
"…The canary… sang…"
Band rolled his eyes. "Great. Another one who's lost it."
Link said nothing.
Deep down, he had a feeling—this nonsense might be hiding the answer he was looking for.
He was just missing one door. One push.
"He says that every day."
A gentle female voice came from behind them.
There was a hint of a Welsh accent, like wind brushing through damp woods.
Link turned around.
A woman wearing a blue volunteer apron walked in, a stack of towels in her arms, a name badge hanging from her wrist.
Dark, curly hair. Skin so pale it was almost translucent. Deep brown eyes—clear in a way that felt like they could see straight through you.
Her presence brightened the dull gray room.
"He always talks about a canary," she said with a smile as she set the towels down. "We figure he must've had a pet bird when he was little."
The smile felt familiar—like something Link had seen on a movie screen before.
He studied her more carefully and felt a small jolt of surprise.
That face—
Catherine Zeta-Jones.
The woman who once danced with swords and fire alongside Zorro.
And now, here she was—just a volunteer in an apron, handing out towels and tea.
The contrast gave him a strange sense of unreality.
"Are you family?" she asked.
"No," Link said after a brief pause. "We're historical researchers."
She nodded, her gaze warm. "Then you've come a long way."
Off to the side, Band silently mouthed, She's prettier than a movie star.
Link pretended not to notice, though a thought crossed his mind:
Sometimes fate really does run on superstition.
They chatted briefly.
Catherine explained that the old man spent most of his time lost in his own world and was rarely lucid.
Link nodded, already making up his mind to try one more time.
He stepped closer and spoke gently. "Mr. Hall, may I see your treasure?"
No response.
The room was so quiet you could hear water droplets falling near the wall.
Link reached out and slowly lifted the corner of the blanket.
A rusted metal lunch tin rested quietly on the old man's lap.
Stamped on it was the lion emblem of Harland and Wolff Shipyard.
Just as Link was about to touch it—
A withered hand suddenly clamped onto his wrist!
The grip was shockingly strong, like a steel vise.
The old man's eyes flared with a mix of fear and rage as he glared at him.
"Don't touch my canary!!" he screamed hoarsely.
Band and Catherine both jumped, and Catherine instinctively stepped forward to calm him.
Link, however, gently turned his wrist and held the old man's hand instead. He didn't struggle. He just met those cloudy eyes and spoke softly.
"Sir, I'm not here to take it away."
From his pocket, he pulled out another photograph—workers posing together after the Titanic was completed.
He held it in front of the old man.
"I'm here for them," Link said quietly, his voice steady. "For the people who built the ship in silence—and never even got their names remembered."
"The canary sang… but no one heard it."
"It's been a hundred years, sir. Its song shouldn't stay locked in that box."
"I'm here to let the whole world hear it."
The words song and sing were like a key slipping into a jammed lock.
Clarity slowly returned to the old man's eyes. The iron grip loosened.
He stared at the young faces in the photo, tears seeping from his cloudy eyes.
With his other trembling hand, he slowly opened the lunch tin.
Rust and the smell of machine oil rushed out.
Inside was almost nothing.
A dented canteen. A faded family photo.
And a tightly oilcloth-wrapped cylinder.
The old man carefully picked it up and stared at it for a long time, as if saying goodbye. Then he looked up at Link and held it out.
This time, what came from his lips wasn't babbling, but words filled with release.
"Let it… sing."
Link's heart clenched. He reached out with both hands and accepted the oilcloth-wrapped object with reverence.
Slowly, layer by layer, he unwrapped it.
—
A single iron rivet.
Its surface was dark, a clear crack running along its neck—like a wound from another era, finally exposed to the air after a century.
"Oh my God…" Band whispered, his voice shaking. "We… we really found it."
Link didn't speak. He gently traced the cold fracture with his fingertip.
He knew this wasn't just about finding a rivet—it was about offering a long-overdue confession for the great ship that sank beneath the sea.
He wrapped the rivet back up carefully and placed it in his inner pocket, close to his chest. Then he turned to the old man in the wheelchair and bowed deeply.
"Thank you, sir. The whole world will hear it."
The old man didn't respond.
It was as if he'd completed his final duty and slipped back into that hollow stillness—but this time, his cloudy eyes looked peaceful at last.