After survival does not come peace, but the hardest test of all: Adaptation.
How can a soul adapt after losing everything it once relied upon?
Klein and Edgar stood at the edge of an abyss, stripped of everything—their home, the wife/mother, their dreams, and even their sense of meaning. Yet, despite the ashes covering their lives, a small flicker of strength remained in Klein's heart. He hadn't lost everything yet... He still had his son, and that alone was enough to give him a reason to go on.
As for Edgar, his young heart was burdened with more than his age could bear. He couldn't understand how his father could continue living after losing the one who smiled at him every morning. In his father's eyes, he saw a struggle between collapse and survival—a man who wanted to scream, yet feared letting his son see his weakness.
The day after the incident, the police arrived at the port.
Their expressions were stiff, their questions weary, and their pens moved with a cold slowness. They investigated, wrote, and concluded that the fire was merely an accidental tragedy. Klein, however, remained silent. He did not reveal the names of those who attacked their ship, as if words had become a pointless burden.
Edgar listened to every word, his chest boiling with refusal.
He knew the truth—he knew that fire was no accident—but he did not speak. He had learned from a young age that sometimes, remaining silent in the face of injustice is easier than speaking to those who refuse to hear.
From that moment on, a strict principle formed within him:
"The police do not search for the truth; they search for a ready-made story served to them on a cold plate. They do not cook justice—they only taste what is handed to them."
He had once dreamed of becoming a policeman, but that dream shattered. Now, he saw them as nothing more than uniforms without souls—a facade of authority hiding complete incompetence in understanding or compassion.
After the investigation concluded, Emily was buried.
Klein stood before the grave, his bandaged hands trembling from pain, not from the cold. His face was rigid, like stone—no tears, no sound. It wasn't that he lacked emotion; he was resisting it so Edgar wouldn't witness his collapse again.
As for Edgar, he was calmer than any child should be while burying his mother. He smiled faintly and placed a blue rose on the grave—the color of the sea that took her, and perhaps the color of a hope that hadn't yet died.
After the funeral ended, they did not leave immediately.
Klein and Edgar lay beside her grave, silent, watching the clouds drift across the sky, casting a gentle shadow over them, just as Emily's laughter once did.
In a fleeting moment, they imagined her laughing with them again—not scolding them this time, but sharing the clouds, the air, and their smiles. That brief moment felt like a truce between grief and memory.
At dusk, they returned to what remained of their lives.
They stood before their burnt home—a pile of ashes and wood, the remnants of dreams turned to dust.
Edgar asked in a hoarse voice:
"Where will we sleep tonight, Father?"
Klein smiled a choked, bitter smile and replied:
"Don't worry... We still have the ship. We'll sleep there."
They walked together toward the port, their steps slow, as if treading on their memories.
But when they arrived, they found only silent waters.
Edgar asked again:
"Where is the ship, Father?"
Klein did not speak. He raised his finger and pointed to the depths.
Edgar approached the edge of the pier and looked into the water...
Bubbles rose slowly, and with each bubble, he heard a faint whisper, as if the ship were saying:
"I am here... below."
At that moment, Klein lifted his head to the sky, as if searching for meaning in what remained.
He watched the clouds drifting freely, never staying in one place, never clinging to the earth.
And then, an idea was born in his mind:
To live as the clouds do—to move, to wander, to start anew.
Their next destination: London—with no money, no shelter, a burned hand, and a broken heart, but still clinging to hope.
Meanwhile, at the port, the other sailors laughed.
They had severed the arms of the octopus that attacked them, and now all the fish were theirs.
They smiled with their yellow teeth and weathered faces, like wolves in human clothing.
They did not know that the octopus was not the real enemy—
but the greed dwelling within them,
the beast whose arms are not severed but fed by sacrifices.