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Florence Garcia awoke to the dull gleam of brass and polished wood, the creak of oak panels beneath her feet, and the faint scent of sea salt wafting through the grand corridors of a ship lost to time. Her hands trembled as she touched her 1900s-era maid''''s uniform—a strange relic for her cleaning shift at the museum but now fitting the scene as though fate had dressed her for her role. The fine details of the ship—the velvet drapes in the dining hall, gilded chandeliers swaying with the motion of the waves, and the hum of passengers enjoying an age of elegance—whispered the impossible truth: she was no longer in the present. Three days before disaster, she met Officer Edward Axelsen, his uniform pristine and his skepticism palpable as she frantically revealed foreknowledge of their doom. Her desperate words earned her a locked cabin, but skepticism fractured when her predictions—engine malfunctions, arguments in the galley, odd weather changes—aligned uncannily with unfolding events. Their nights became fevered plans under lantern light, Edward’s sharp blue eyes softening as her conviction and courage inspired him. Yet the passengers and crew, blind to risk in their gilded comfort, dismissed their warnings.