Two days later, Belfast, Northern Ireland.
A light drizzle was falling as the plane touched down. The entire city was wrapped in a damp gray haze. The air was cold and sharp—nothing like the dry, blazing heat of Los Angeles. It felt like a completely different world.
Link stood at the top of the jet bridge, an old leather suitcase in hand, his fingertips slightly numb from the cold.
—This was the stop that would decide the fate of Titanic.
He skipped the hotel, rented a car, and drove straight toward Queen's Island.
In the distance, the two massive yellow cranes of the Harland & Wolff shipyard stood against the skyline like silent monuments.
They were relics of the Industrial Age—and tombstones for human pride.
The archives were tucked away in a corner of the shipyard, inside an old red-brick building covered in ivy. Rainwater dripped from the leaves—
tap, tap, tap.
He pushed open the heavy oak door. The smell of old paper and dust rushed toward him. At the front desk, an elderly woman wearing reading glasses was focused on knitting.
"I'm here to see Mr. Arthur Finch. I have an appointment."
The woman lifted her eyelids and looked him over from above her glasses. Slowly, she picked up the phone and said a few words in a thick Northern Irish accent Link could barely understand.
"Wait." She hung up and went right back to her yarn.
Link looked around the lobby. The walls were lined with black-and-white photographs—workers standing in front of enormous hulls, their smiles sincere and exhausted. They were people who built dreams for the world, yet would never be able to afford a ticket aboard the ships themselves.
"Mr. Link ?"
The voice came from the staircase.
A tall, thin old man walked down, his hair completely white. He wore a faded tweed jacket and moved with meticulous precision.
This was Arthur Finch, the curator.
His gaze was sharp—like a scalpel—carefully dissecting him.
"Come with me," he said.
Finch's office felt more like a storage room. Shelves were crammed with documents and scale models. An electric heater hummed in the corner.
"Sit." Finch pointed to an armchair that looked one push away from collapsing, then sat behind his desk.
Link sat down and glanced around. Suddenly, his eyes locked onto an old photograph on Finch's desk. He had seen that young, boyish face before in the Titanic materials Martha had collected.
"Japanese?" Finch asked.
"No. I'm Chinese."
"Chinese? You don't see many of those in Hollywood."
Link didn't respond.
"I like China—it has a long history," Finch said as he packed tobacco into his pipe. "But I hate Hollywood. They treat history like a toy. Use it when they want, then toss it away once the movie's done."
Link still didn't reply. He seemed not to hear the sarcasm at all, his eyes fixed on the photo.
"This boy," he said, pointing at the frame. "His name was Samuel Scott, right?"
Finch looked up. His expression changed instantly.
"You know him?"
Link answered calmly, "He was fifteen. A rivet heater. He fell from the hull and suffered a shattered skull. He was the first person to die because of the Titanic."
The room went silent except for the low hum of the heater.
Finch's pipe paused midair. His eyes tightened slightly.
He said nothing. Slowly, he set the pipe down and looked at Link again, as if seeing him for the first time.
"How do you know all this?"
"I saw an old photograph," Link said softly. "Maybe… he's the reason I came here."
He leaned forward, his voice low but firm. "Mr. Finch, I'm not here to make a romantic love story. What I want to film is the illusion of the Industrial Age—
"Humanity thought it could conquer the ocean. Instead, the ocean taught us a lesson. That ship was their pride—and their grave."
Finch just stared at him, silent.
Link slowly stood up and gestured toward the photos on the desk, his voice growing stronger.
"The workers built the greatest ship in the world, yet couldn't afford a third-class ticket.
"The lifeboats were divided by class. The people on top went to heaven. The people at the bottom went to hell.
"What I want to film is the truth the world forgot."
Finch's expression finally changed.
Those knife-like eyes grew complicated.
He looked at Link for a long moment, then spoke in a deep voice. "You talk a good game."
He stood and looked out the window at the rain.
"But… the blueprints are property of the National Trust. I don't have the authority to lend them out."
Link's heart sank.
"But…" Finch turned back, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips.
"There's an exception in the archive's regulations. For a 'major historical research or cultural restoration project,' limited copying is allowed—with a guarantor."
"A guarantor?" Link raised an eyebrow.
"Yes." Finch pulled a form from a stack of papers and slid it across the desk.
"It has to be an institution or individual with enough credibility. The British Museum, for example. Or… a historian with a knighthood."
Link looked down at the form.
He sighed, folded it, and stood up. "I understand. Thank you for your time."
As he turned to leave, Finch suddenly called out.
"Mr. Link ."
Link turned back.
"That boy," Finch said, his voice carrying the faintest tremor, almost imperceptible. "Will his name be in your film?"
Link smiled, calm and resolute. "Yes. First in the end credits."
"Why?"
"Because he wasn't just someone on that ship," Link said gently. "He was part of it."
Finch's lips moved slightly. He said nothing—only nodded, watching Link walk away.
Link reached the door, his hand on the handle, when Finch spoke again.
"Mr. Link ."
He turned.
The old man hesitated, as if making a difficult decision. From a pile of yellowed documents, he pulled out an aging envelope and handed it over.
"Maybe… you should go see this person."
Link took the envelope. There was no address—only a name:
Sir Douglas Spencer.
"Who is he?"
"His father was the chief assistant to the Titanic's lead designer.
"When the ship sank, his father was on board."
Finch's eyes drifted toward the two massive cranes outside the window, his voice filled with quiet respect.
"He inherited all of his father's manuscripts and notes. What he has is even more complete than the blueprints here."
"And most importantly…"
"He's spent his entire life waiting for someone who could tell the world the truth his father saw with his own eyes."