The Passenger Who Never Boarded

Some say fate is just chance dressed in meaning.

I disagree.

Because I was meant to be on the Titanic.

April 10th, 1912. Southampton, England.

The morning fog was thick, ghostly, the kind that clings to your coat and whispers in your ears. I had come by horse cart from a neighboring village, my suitcase rattling beside me, unaware that history was already being written just beyond the fog.

My name was Thomas Wren, a traveling apprentice clockmaker from Leeds. I was twenty-four and bound for a new life in New York—offered work by my uncle in his Manhattan shop. My ticket to board the RMS Titanic sat folded in my jacket pocket, second class. I’d saved for two years to afford it.

And yet… I missed it.

By less than ten minutes.

Not because I hesitated, not because I was lost—because the cart’s axle snapped in the final stretch, and I had to walk the last mile through the crowd-swarmed docks with my suitcase in hand, only to see the Titanic’s great mass pulling away. Flags fluttered. Music played from the deck. People cheered.

And I stood on the pier, gasping, devastated, waving my hands, crying out.

They never saw me.

The ship had already begun her journey into legend.

I stood there for hours, stunned.

And then, four nights later, the world cracked open.

News came fast and full of disbelief:

"Titanic Sinks on Maiden Voyage."

"1,500 Lives Lost in Icy Waters."

"Unsinkable No More."

I read every name. My hands shook as I spotted familiar faces—people I'd spoken to in line, shared a tea with at the travel office, or passed in the waiting room. Gone. All gone.

And that’s when something strange began to happen.

I started to remember things I shouldn’t.

Flashes.

I saw myself walking the grand staircase in a dark suit.

Dancing in the first-class saloon—though my ticket was for second.

The panic. The freezing water. The sound of splitting steel.

A child clutched in my arms that wasn’t mine. A final gasp beneath the stars.

These weren’t dreams.

They were memories. Ancient. Vivid. Piercing.

I became obsessed.

Over the years, I tracked everything about the Titanic. I spoke with survivors. I memorized the floorplans, the menu of the final dinner, even the angle at which the bow rose before sinking. I couldn't explain why—but every time I looked at photos, I felt the ache of returning home. Like a ghost who'd narrowly escaped his own death.

I lived a long life. Married. Opened my own clock shop in Boston. Had three children.

But the Titanic never left me.

In 1972, sixty years after the sinking, I was 84 and fading. I hadn’t spoken of the missed voyage in decades. Until one night, I dreamed I was back there—not on the dock, but on board. The sky above the Atlantic shimmered. The deck was quiet. Empty.

I wandered the ship alone.

Every door I opened led to rooms I had never seen, but somehow knew.

I found a small brass clock, frozen at 2:20 a.m.—the minute the Titanic vanished beneath the sea.

I picked it up, and it ticked once. Just once.

And then I heard a voice.

"Not your time, Thomas. But you’ll return. Souls always return."

I died in my sleep the next morning.

Or so they say.

But I believe something else happened.

Epilogue (told in modern day)

In 2023, a young man visiting a Titanic exhibit in Belfast collapsed near a replica of the grand staircase.

When revived, he said something strange.

“I know this place. I danced here. I... was late once. But I’m back now.”

His name? Thomas Wren.

The End !!!