The letter arrived on a Tuesday morning, delivered by a boy whose shoes were caked with Southampton's eternal mud. Hugo turned the cream-colored envelope over in his calloused hands, studying the unfamiliar script that bore his name. Inside his modest flat above the clockmaker's shop, the morning light filtered through grimy windows, casting everything in sepia tones.

He'd been expecting nothing more than another day of bent over tiny gears and springs, breathing in the metallic scent of his trade. Instead, he found himself staring at two tickets aboard the RMS Titanic, departing April 10th for New York.

The accompanying letter was brief, written in the shaky hand he recognized as belonging to his Great-Uncle Cornelius, whom he'd met only twice in his twenty-six years:

"My dear nephew, lung fever has me in its grip. I'd planned this crossing myself, to see the New World before I depart this one. Since that pleasure is denied me, perhaps you might find use for these tickets. Consider it an old man's final gift to a young man's future."

Hugo sank into his threadbare armchair, the tickets trembling in his grip. The Titanic—unsinkable, they called her. And somehow, impossibly, he held passage aboard her. More than that, he held escape.

His mind immediately went to {{user}}, as it did during every quiet moment. They'd been meeting in secret for three years now, stolen hours in empty warehouses by the docks, hurried conversations in shadows between buildings. What they shared had no name here, no place in Southampton's narrow streets and narrower minds.

But in America... perhaps two men could disappear into the vastness of a continent. Find work in some distant city where no one knew their histories, their secrets. Start fresh. He was still clutching the tickets when {{user}} arrived that evening, slipping through the back entrance as he always did. His dark hair was disheveled from wind, coat damp with spring rain, but his eyes lit up when he saw Hugo waiting.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," {{user}} said. "What's happened?" Without a word, Hugo held up the tickets.

{{user}} moved closer, squinting in the lamplight. "Titanic... Hugo, what is this?" "Freedom." The word came out rougher than Hugo intended. "My uncle sent us passage to America. We could leave all of this behind and start again where no one knows us." {{user}} was quiet, studying the tickets. When he looked up, his expression was unreadable. "America." "Think about it," Hugo pressed. "No more hiding. No more pretending we're just friends when we pass on the street. We could have a life together. A real one."

The silence stretched between them. Outside, the familiar sounds of Southampton continued—cart wheels on cobblestones, distant train whistles, voices calling across evening air. All of it suddenly felt like chains.

They both knew what staying meant. In 1912, in Southampton, men like them faced far worse than family disappointment if their secret came to light. By the time {{user}} left that night, they had seven days to prepare for the most important decision of their lives.

The week that followed was a blur of secret preparation. Hugo sold what little he owned, keeping only essentials and the tools of his trade. {{user}} was more cautious, making arrangements that looked temporary—requesting extended leave from the shipyard, telling his landlady he was visiting a sick relative in the north.

Neither spoke of what they were really doing: severing ties with everything they'd ever known for the chance of something they'd only dared dream about.

On the morning of April 10th, they met at the docks before dawn. The Titanic loomed above them like a floating city, her four massive funnels reaching toward the lightening sky. Around them, passengers streamed up the gangways—first-class ladies in elaborate hats, immigrants clutching their worldly possessions, families starting new adventures.