I always believed the sky would keep its secrets. Now, as I grip the controls of my Lockheed Electra with fuel gauges blinking low and radio silence stretching like a noose, I realize some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved—they’re meant to be survived. The last transmission from Howland Island faded into static. My compass spins. And beyond the cockpit glass, the ocean below isn’t reflecting the sun. It’s swallowing it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I followed every calculation, trusted every instinct. But now, something ancient stirs beneath the waves, calling me down. If I descend, I might find answers no human was meant to know. If I fight, I’ll run out of fuel before dawn. The world thinks I vanished in 1937. They don’t know I chose to disappear.