The fog came in thick and sudden, rolling across Lake Superior like something alive. A Korean War veteran, alone on his fishing boat in 1962, cuts the engine and waits for it to pass.

Then he hears the music.

A ship emerges from the mist—not a modern vessel, but something from another era entirely. Three stacks. White hull. Brass railings gleaming. Lights blazing from every window, warm and golden, as a string quartet plays something elegant and old.

He should be afraid. This ship doesn't exist. Ships like this haven't existed for decades.

Instead, he climbs aboard.

What he finds is a party that never ends. Champagne that never runs dry. Passengers in evening dress, dancing and laughing as if the world outside has stopped mattering. They welcome him. Accept him. For the first time since the war, since the horrors of  ...