In the belly of that forsaken alley, there I lay—a fragile heap of fur and bone, discarded like yesterday’s trash. The stench of decay clung to the air, a vile perfume of rot and neglect, where the living mingled with the dead. Some of my kin were already stiff with the chill of death, their tiny bodies rigid in their final repose. Others, less fortunate still, writhed under the assault of worms and maggots, their misery prolonged by the cruel hand of fate. And there, among them, I—a pitiful creature, trembling on the very precipice of oblivion.

A hand reached down, gentle was its touch and plucked me from the muck as if I were some treasure buried in the mire. I was bathed in warm waters that washed away the filth of the world and the vermin that sought to devour me. Once I was cleaned, dried, and brushed, my carers would remark in awe that each strand of my fur resembled a golden thread, banded and interwoven in shades of the earth—cinnamon, tawny, and fawn—blending together, much like the undulating dunes beneath a blazing sun.

They cradled me tenderly, either holding me close in their arms or settling me in a cozy box lined with soft blankets. My belly, once a hollow void, was filled with the warmth of sweet milk, and with each drop, the life that had nearly escaped me was coaxed back, breath by breath.

Aboard the NOAH 1 ship, my place was not among the ranks of those who command or navigate the vast seas. No, my duty was of a gentler sort, though no less important. I was to bring solace to the weary, to comfort the broken-hearted, to be a balm for the soul in a world where such comforts were as scarce as a sailor's star in a storm. 

And so, from the filth, I was reborn—not merely to live, but to serve, to be a small, warm light in the cold darkness that so often surrounds us. They christened me Page, a name fit for a service animal. In my simple existence, I found a purpose far greater than myself, for in the quiet company of those who suffered, I became their lifeline, their hope in a world that had forgotten the meaning of the word. 

Despite my best efforts, however, not all could be saved from the depths of their own despair. And when such tragedies unfolded, they didn't pass me by like the fleeting shadows of clouds; they lodged deep within me, cutting me through like a sword. Failure was no small burden—it clung to me, thick and oppressive, a leaden anchor dragging me into dark waters that threatened to engulf me for weeks on end.

Sarah from Cabin 4, a mother of three children and wife of a lost sea scavenger, approached me with a bowl of mashed tuna in her hands. Her steps were slow and heavy, as if she carried more than just the dish. I sensed her sorrow, though it was not something that could be measured by touch, smell, or sight. It was an ethereal thing. I felt it more keenly than I could describe—an ache, a tightening of the chest that made each breath a struggle against the invisible chains of melancholy.

The tuna, once a delight to my senses, now seemed an impossible task. Its scent reached my nostrils, familiar and tempting, yet I found no joy in it. My appetite had shrunk in the face of the sorrow that permeated the cabin. As I nibbled at the offering, each bite a struggle, a somber realization settled over me: there was nothing more I could do to ease her pain.

No matter how often I nuzzled my head against her hand, wove between her legs, or licked her cheek with gentle affection, even the soft rumble of my purr in her ears—once a balm for troubled hearts—seemed powerless against the depth of her grief. 

The only solace I could offer her was to follow her, silently, to the promenade deck. A handful of figures roamed the deck, savoring the cool serenity of the night, their footsteps barely more than whispers. Meanwhile, within the warm confines of the ship, others were enjoying themselves, their laughter rising in boisterous bursts, acheer of camaraderie mingling with the resonant clatter of pint glasses colliding in shared toasts. 

As she approached the ship's rail, I backed away, feeling the chill of inevitability in the air. She gripped the rail, her knuckles white against the iron, and with a final, haunting smile cast in my direction, she vaulted over the edge. In an instant, she vanished into the abyss, leaving me alone in the stillness of the night, where the whisper of the waves echoed in my ears, marking her passage into the depths below.

Screams mingled with the roar of the waves as a small crowd surged toward the rail where Sarah had stood moments before.

***

Sarah's three children—Sam, aged eight, Joe, twelve, and Anne, ten—lay in their beds as if cradled by peaceful dreams, 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 bright confines of 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. 

The captain, flanked by a petty officer 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. With a nod, the captain ordered the steward to fetch the surgeon and the body bags, for the children's bodies would soon need to be removed, and the cabin sealed off. 

"Why rob the children of life?" the captain spat out, his voice edged with a searing anger. "Sarah committed a damnable act. Such selfishness—it’s unthinkable."

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

“Read it.”

Alan settled into a chair, placing me gently on her lap. I peered at the letter, curious to know of Sarah’s final thoughts. It 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 voice steady and devoid of emotion:

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 ten 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.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Please extend my gratitude to Officer Alan, who offered us a small measure of 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 ten years 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

***

Alan placed the letter back on the desk, her face etched with the seriousness of what she had just read. Captain Francis stood facing the window, his back turned to us, yet I could see the subtle tremor in his shoulders, his head hung low under the crushing grief, rooting him to the spot. 

“Search the room,” he commanded, his voice tight, as if the words themselves were strangling him.

“What am I looking for, sir?”

“Whatever she used to—to put the children to sleep,” he replied, his voice faltering. “It doesn’t look like she suffocated them with a pillow or strangled them. They appear to have gone quietly, as if they simply went to sleep, tucking themselves in for the night. At least, that’s what I like to believe.”

“It's a comforting thought, sir. I also think that's what happened to them.”

I knew at once what he meant. The moment we entered the cabin, I caught an unfamiliar scent—a sweet foreign aroma, lingering in the air like a wispy cloud. Leaping from Alan’s lap, I circled the room, my tail swaying from side to side as I let the scent guide me, the gears in my mind turning with grim purpose. 

I hopped onto a chair by the desk, where three plates, dotted with crumbs from slices of bread the kids had enjoyed for dessert, lay abandoned. Beside them were three empty glasses, their rims still clinging to the sweet-smelling residue of a drink. 

Yet, the tantalizing aroma that had caught my attention wasn’t coming from there. It was wafting from somewhere else in the room. I inhaled deeply, trying to trace its source. It drew me to the trash bin nestled in the shadowy corner of the room. I rose up on my hind legs and braced my front paws against the bin, pressing it until it toppled over spilling its contents onto the floor. 

It’s in here! I called to Alan, though I knew my words fell silent between us, lost in the chasm of our differing species and the languages that danced just beyond our reach. But, in that moment, she grasped what my actions conveyed. 

She knelt beside the overturned bin, her hands sifting through the jumble of broken fishbone quills and crumpled dried fish-skin papers. Amidst the debris, she discovered it—a small brown bottle, no larger than a thumb, along with its cork. 

She brought the vial to her nose and took a tentative sniff, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion as she struggled to decipher the unfamiliar scent. I had reacted similarly when we first entered the room. I had caught a whiff of it from the children’s partially opened mouths, but I had been too much in shock and grief over their passing to truly comprehend its significance. 

“Captain, I think this is it,” she said, handing the vial to him. He took it, bringing it to his nose for a brief, cautious sniff.

“Have the surgeon examine it,” he ordered. “And find out where Sarah might have acquired it.”

“What should I do once I discover who sold her the poison?”

“Bring them in for questioning. There's a strong chance they could be charged as an accomplice to murder.”

“I'll get on it, sir.”

Alan bent down, her fingers gently scratching behind my ears, sending a delightful shiver through my body.

“Good boy, Page,” she murmured. “I suppose I’ll take you along. You’re proving to be quite the partner in this investigation.” 

Her touch, warm and reassuring, set my nerves tingling, while her words swelled my heart with pride. I was more than ready to follow her, eager to assist in any way I could, and to help bring closure for Sarah and her family. It was, I knew, the very least I could do.

When the ship's surgeon Dr. Willis arrived, his eyes were wide with disbelief, as if the very marrow of his bones had turned to ice. With a visible effort, he shook himself free from the grip of that initial shock, his face hardening as he moved toward the small, lifeless forms to confirm that there was no life in them.

The room was suffused with the unbearable stillness of death, broken only by the soft rustling of the dark green kelp sheets as the petty officer began to unfurl them, preparing to shroud the bodies. But then, something flickered in the corner of my vision. Across the room, Joe and Anne stood in their long pajamas, pale figures bathed in an ethereal light. Of course, no human could see them—only I possessed that sight. It must be some innate ability of my kind, a gift that allowed me to peer beyond the veil of the material world into realms unseen by human eyes.

Joe and Anne's faces were tinged with sorrow, as if they mourned the brevity of their lives. There was a serene peace about them, however; a quiet acceptance of their fate. But Sam was not among them. His absence sent a jolt through me, a sudden, undeniable realization. My heart quickened, and with a sudden burst of urgency, I leaped onto the foot of little Sam’s bed, crying out, desperate to make the officer stop before it was too late. 

The steward attempted to swat me off the bed, but I stood my ground, resolute. I leapt onto Sam’s chest, hissing fiercely, my back arched in defiance. My paw shot out, claws unsheathed and poised to strike, a clear warning to the officer that I wouldn’t be moved so easily.

"Out of my way, Page," the officer barked, his words edged with the sharpness of steel, cutting through the tension like a blade.

But Alan, ever vigilant, stepped forward, her voice calm yet commanding, like a captain steadying the helm in a storm. "Wait!" she interjected, her face flashing with conviction. "He’s trying to tell us something." Her gaze shifted to the surgeon. “Check his vitals once more, if you please.”

Dr. Willis, though skeptical, moved with the seriousness of a man who had witnessed too much to dismiss even the faintest hope. His brow furrowed, deep lines carving his face like furrows in the earth. He approached the boy's bedside. Leaning in, he placed his ear near Sam’s mouth, listening intently for the faintest breath, that fragile thread binding life to flesh. Next, he reached for his stethoscope and placed it over the boy’s heart.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing—only the heavy silence of a room holding its breath. Then, Dr. Willis sprang upright, a tremor in his voice as he announced, “The boy—he’s still alive!”

Captain Francis gathered Sam into his arms, cradling the boy with a tenderness that belied his usual stern demeanor, and rushed from the cabin with Dr. Willis running at his side. Alan and the steward remained behind, silently wrapping the other bodies in the dark kelp sheets.

I bolted after the captain and the surgeon, my paws barely touching the cold metal floors as I raced down the winding corridors, darting left and right, then down the steps, my heart pounding in time with the heavy footfalls behind me. Captain Francis was breathing hard, clutching Sam tightly, as though by sheer force of will he could keep the boy tethered to life.

At last, we reached the infirmary. Captain Francis gently laid Sam down on a narrow bed, his hands lingering for a moment before Dr. Willis stepped in, barking orders to the nurse. She set up the oxygen tank and prepared the intravenous line. This might be their last chance to pull the boy back from the abyss.

After a few agonizing minutes, I leaped onto the foot of the bed, waiting for any sign of life. Then, at last, he began to stir, and his eyelids fluttered open, a faint spark of life rekindling in his gaze.