Prologue
A pair of hands are hovering above the old type writer. They are wrinkled, showing all the signs of old age, yet they are still as strong as they used to be. Slowly a fingertip presses down, still hesitating but quickly becoming more sure as the rest of the fingers join in and the first words start to appear on the paper.
"It's been 84 years…"
The rattling stops.
The man behind the typewriter sighs and lifts a shaky hand up to cover his mouth as he closes his eyes. It's been 84 years. The year is 1996 and it's been 84 years since the RMS Titanic made its way towards the bottom of the ocean. Typewriters are deemed unnecessary and old fashioned now, but Castiel Milton feels like he won't be able to write this story without a little piece of that time, something to remind him not everything has been washed away by modern technologies and new innovations, spaceships and internet, a car in every driveway and a never-ending lust for the future and the yet unknown. Castiel, in most ways, prefers the old times. Most ways.
He takes in a deep breath and casts a glance at the faded picture in the heavy silver frame that stands at the corner of his desk. Two people look back at him, one of them wearing a lazy grin, the other the beginning of a smile. Though one of them has been long gone, the picture still is enough to give Castiel what he was looking for.
"It's been 84 years… and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in."
He smiles.
"Titanic was called the ship of dreams. And it was. It really was."