Traveling from Belfast to the English countryside felt like jumping out of a rusty tin can and landing straight into a slice of buttercream cake.
Even the air tasted sweet.
The car rattled along a narrow gravel road, with lawns on both sides trimmed so perfectly they looked almost unreal.
At the end of the road stood an old stone house. Ivy crawled up its walls, and it looked older than American history itself.
Link held the yellowed envelope in his hand, his palm slightly damp with sweat.
A white-haired butler stood ramrod straight, like someone who had stepped out of an oil painting. His voice was cool and distant.
"Mr. Link , the Sir is waiting for you in the study."
The study lights were off, leaving the room dim. The air smelled of old books and cold ashes from a long-dead fire.
An elderly man sat in a high-backed chair, a plaid wool blanket draped over him. His back was to Link as he gazed out the window.
That was Sir Douglas Spencer.
Link had expected a frail academic, but when the man turned around, his heart tightened.
Those eyes were anything but cloudy.
Clear. Sharp. Like thin sheets of ice that could see straight through you.
"A man from Hollywood," the old man said.
His voice was steady, like a lake that hadn't rippled in decades.
"Finch, that stubborn old fool… I can't believe he introduced you to me. Sit."
Link sat down, his back naturally straight.
"You want to make a movie about my father?" the old man asked.
"No," Link shook his head. "I want to tell the story of everyone on the Titanic. Including a fifteen-year-old boy named Samuel Scott."
Sir Spencer's hand froze in midair, his teacup hovering.
For the first time, cracks appeared in those icy eyes.
"You even know about him…"
Silence fell over the room, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace.
The old man studied Link for a long time—so long that Link began to wonder if he had fallen asleep.
His fingers rubbed slowly along the rim of the cup. Finally, he stood and said quietly, "Come with me."
He led Link down a corridor to a thick iron door.
The key slid into the lock.
Click.
It sounded like a seal being broken.
Inside wasn't a study—it was a vault.
Metal walls. Rows of shelves. Neatly arranged tin boxes, each carefully labeled.
This was the old man's true world.
Sir Spencer walked to the very back and took down a box from the lowest, oldest shelf.
Inside wasn't blueprints, but a thick leather-bound journal. Time had polished the cover until it gleamed.
"My father—Thomas Andrews' chief assistant," he said. "He kept a diary every single day."
With almost tender care, the old man ran his hand over the journal.
He put on his reading glasses and flipped to a page.
The handwriting was pressed deep into the paper, as if carved with a knife.
"Dock Number Three. Rivet samples failed inspection again. Slag content too high. I raised the issue for the twelfth time at the meeting—recommended using Steel Rivet Type Three—but Mr. Ismay rejected it due to 'cost overruns.' Iron Rivet Type Four is too brittle. In freezing seawater, it will shatter."
Link swallowed.
Sir Spencer's voice remained calm—terrifyingly calm.
"My father calculated it. With that batch of substandard iron rivets, their ductility at freezing temperatures drops to zero. On impact, the hull would tear open like a zipper."
"So," he paused, locking eyes with Link,
"that ship was doomed the moment it left Belfast."
The air seemed to freeze solid.
Only their breathing echoed in the room.
Link's fingers trembled. He clenched his teeth, his voice hoarse.
"…This wasn't an accident."
Sir Spencer looked up and added coldly,
"This was murder."
In that instant, it felt as though a hammer slammed into Link's chest.
He suddenly understood: the cruelest disasters in the world are never icebergs—
they're people.
Sir Spencer closed the journal and raised his head, staring straight at Link.
"Now you understand."
"Finch didn't send you to me for blueprints."
"He sent you for this."
He slid the journal across the table.
"I've waited my entire life," he said quietly. "Waiting for someone brave enough to tell this story."
Link reached out and took the journal, saying nothing.
The old man continued,
"All of these diaries, manuscripts, design notes—I'll give them to you. Every last one. No money."
He leaned forward. In his eyes burned a fire that had been smoldering for decades.
"But I have one condition."
"In your film, you must tell the world the truth."