There is a power in transitions.

There are places along the continental ridge where the endless churning cycle of grinding subduction and glorious rebirth releases that power upon the weave of reality. And it was in one of these miraculous hot-spots that the HMS Brisingamen sank, its hold as full as its lifeboats.

Deep in that hold, and strewn amidst hastily-abandoned cabins and steerage, there are wonders aplenty!

Tucked into the stern, three decks down, the bosun’s cabin lies undisturbed by all but the most valiant of fishes. Within his desk, a tightly-bound wax-paper package containing a single letter.

If the bosun had perished, this letter would be suffused with his unspoken love for his paramour on the shore, and all who swam within a hundred yards would be struck by Cupid’s arrow.

But there were many happy endings that day, and his is one of them.

Instead, the letter is bound by its waterproof wrappings. They were never meant to protect against such pressure, such complete and utter saturation, and the wonders of this place have fused paper and wax like a diamond, never to be parted.

They whisper a warning of words-left-unspoken, they open the hearts of all who hear it upon the tides.

Never more should love suffer in silence, or be lost beneath the waves.