Rolling her mop bucket out of the janitor's closet, after battling the paper towels and toilet paper that toppled onto her bonnet when her mop handle unceremoniously whacked them all off the shelves, Emily sighed as she glanced at the clock on her phone.

5:07 p.m.

Dammit.

Once again, she would be late clocking out of her shift, and could bet on getting her second write-up for it in just two ghastly days.

But how could it be blamed on her that some bird flu had passed around among the staff, and that she remained one of the few cashiers who didn't call in sick?

What else was she supposed to do to get everything done before closing?

In addition to her usual mopping of the promenade deck, she was given the captain's cabin and the photo gallery all the way on the other side of the museum.

And God forbid she be paid a cent of overtime for this thankless retail job.

She was lucky as it is that her manager forgot about the restrooms.

Needless to say, the darkening indigo clouds outside the floor-to ceiling museum windows looked ominous, and Emily was eager to get done and out.

She decided to work her way backwards, from the captain's cabin, to the gallery, to the promenade, which was closest to her gift shop.

Making little pictures on the sleek wooden decking in oddly satisfying circles. When she wasn't on a time crunch, she could do it all day. Cleaning and making things all anew again.

Especially with so much going on in her head lately, ever since she found herself a century old dead man for a roommate.

And as she mopped a stick figure into the floor with an officer's hat wearing a pair of pajamas, she found herself coming back around to James's last haunting words to her that morning.

Since the moment I first saw you, I've felt these unimaginably intimate feelings for you...as I might've had for her. Was there ever more to the accident, or your reason for helping me? Was there ever a moment you questioned your memory of it all?

Looping her mop bucket around the captain's cabin room to the photo gallery, Emily glanced toward the wall honoring Titanic's officers, as was always her habit walking by during her closing routine. Reciting every name by memory as she walked by each officer's photograph.

Captain Edward J. Smith, Henry Wilde, William Murdoch, Charles Lightoller, Herbert John Pitman, Harold Lowe...

She stilled her pace, her tapping white converse against the echoing wood floors coming to a stop after Harold Lowe's photograph.

Her bonneted head tilting curiously, caught off guard by the naked brick wall staring back at her against the warm light of a lonely dim overlamp, where Officer James Paul Moody's portrait used to hang only yesterday.

Instead, she found a rectangular white sign with navy blue lettering directing onlookers to the "Guest Restrooms -" at the right of her.

And just when she began to question her memory of the unexpected portrait arrangement, her manager, Mark Capri, suddenly appeared out of nowhere at the other end of the gallery.

"Em, what are you still doing here? If you think I'm signing off on more overtime for you, you got another thing coming. Go home."

"I will, as soon as I finish mopping the promenade deck," Emily indicated the bucket at her side.

"Now, Em," he insisted firmly. "Just let opening shift pick it up in the morning. You go over one minute, and it's my ass, not yours. Clock yourself out."

And then Capri turned around to march on along in his merry way.

"Hey, Mark. Wait," Emily stopped her manager again. "When did we get a restroom sign here? Has it always been on this wall?"

"What?" Mark frowned back at her, his shoulders tense with the aggravation of her standing there asking him dumb questions, when she was still hacking away at his overtime.

"What happened to the picture that used to be here?" she inquired of him. "Did they hang it somewhere else?"

"Picture? What picture?"

"The one of James Paul Moody," Emily clued him in.

"The saxophone player?"

"The 6th Titanic Officer?" she repeated it back to him, unsure of how a manager running a history museum could be so clueless about the historic people within it. "There were 6 officers' portraits up here yesterday, but now there are only 5."

"Ahhh-huh."

And the doubting way he looked at her when he said it, it was like he'd just watched her fall out of another dimension or something.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Em. What does a picture have to do with you clocking out?"

And turning to leave her again, he called back one last warning, as if it were some favor he was doing her.

"I'll fix your clock-out time for this shift, but don't let it happen again. Stop by my office before you leave to sign your write-up."