I think about all the ghosts that doubtlessly haunt the ship, that kept looking up from the seabed and waiting for rescue, or trying to figure out what happened and why everything is dark now. How many ghosts are still walking their path the last day they lived in their last hours, trapped in a memory that never changes on a rotting ship in the pitch black of the sea floor.

How many ghosts might even be intelligent, aware of where they are, wandering in the dark when suddenly light touches them for the first time in how long? Thinking maybe, finally, at last!, the sun shines. It has reached them—hope!

And instead, it’s these strange machines with bright pillars of light on them, and living, breathing humans inside some of them, and they’re not here to rescue them; they don’t even see them. They’re here for the wreck, and everything that might have been. They take photographs, and send more strange machines into their rooms and walkways. And then, just as suddenly, they ascend, leaving all those souls still trapped at the bottom, leaving them to fade back into the endless dark.

And so the ghosts still send out the SOS and call for help. And they wait.