In a small, crowded apartment in New York, Rose Dawson sat in at an old table in her small kitchen. Which only consisted of a wood stove, a sink that barely worked, and an old ice box. Her husband of two months, Jack Dawson, paced back and forth. Running his hands through his now short hair.

"Jack, it's alright, it really--" Rose lied.

"No, Rose. I'm not having my baby grow up somewhere like this. I won't let it happen. And don't tell me it's alright. No one want's this for their children."

"Jack we can't do anything else! We have no money, your barely making enough to keep… this," Her voice raised, she trough up her hands to indicate the apartment. "Why can't we just go to Wisconsin, I'm sure we can--"

"I've told you a million times! I cant go back there, Rose!" He had stopped pacing, and was now yelling.

"It has nothing to do with can't! You WON'T go back." She was now on her feet.

"You don't understand! There's nothing there, Rose! It's all farming! You think want to be a farmer?" He leaned in to her with his hand pointing at himself, and a angry look on his face. He stood in that pose for several seconds before shaking his head, and walking out.

Rose sat in the hard chair, crying into the white and brown dress she had been given by the Red Cross, after Titanic.

She stumbled out into the other half of the room, which held a brass bed and a couch that had stuffing falling out. She laid herself on the thing covers of the bed, letting her tears soak the pillow. She gently put her hand on her abdomen, and gave a sad smile. This was not what she wanted for her baby in the least bit.

Several hours later, Rose awoke to see the little electric light turned on, and Jack scribbling away. At first she gave a faint smile, thinking Jack was drawing again. Which she had discovered had been a habit of his when he became stressed. There were at least fifty papers piled up in a corner, all with sketched on both sides. But her smile turned into a look of curiosity, when she realized that that was the sound of writing, not drawing.

"Darling, what are doing?" She sat up in the bed.

"Writing. Writing a letter to my aunt in Holland."

"Your aunt in Holland? I didn't know you had an aunt in Holland." She said.

"Yeah, well, we don't know many things about each other, do we?"

"No, I suppose not. I'll stop bothering you." she laid back in the bed, facing the opposite direction.

"I'm sorry Rose, I… never wanted to resort to this. But it's are only choice." He laid the pen down, and began to walk towards the bed.

Rose sat up, "Resort to what? What's happening?" Jack sat on the bed putting his hand on her shoulder. "My mother has a sister in Holland. They were always close. She told me, that if I ever needed anything, to contact her. I… I had thought about it so much after my folks died, I memorized the address. Good thing too, because the piece of paper it was written on is on the bottom of the ocean," He gave a slight laugh, "I'm asking if she can help us… it's our last hope."

This, and the next few chapters are a bit short. They'll get longer, though. R&R!