He wasn’t looking for treasure, or glory, or answers.

He died that night. I buried him under a slate sky, then went looking. The trail began in the archives of Port Stilwell, a town that smelled of diesel and rotting pier wood. A brittle newspaper from April 12, 1943, carried a war-era headline: . The article was clipped. The lower half, where the fishermen’s names would have been, was torn away. But someone had underlined a phrase in pencil: “the eastern approach to Hollow Bay.”

“To all stations: Operation APRIL SHROUD is not a drill. The resonance engine will collapse local causality for 0.4 seconds. Fishermen in sector seven ignored the warning buoy. Their names are Elias Crowe, Maryam Voss, and Samuel Naylor. They are not dead. They are dispersed across the morning of April 12, forever one minute before sunrise. Do not attempt retrieval. Do not mention Hollow City again. This message will self-black.”

Behind us, the Hollow City sank beneath the waves, taking its secrets with it. But in my pocket, the rust flakes of the key still held a faint warmth. And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly what my father had meant.

I read it three times. Then I understood what my father had been searching for, what he had given me the key to find.

The end.