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"Convoy sighted," he reported.

But as they approached, the ships seemed wrong. Their hulls were rusted, their flags tattered. They moved without sound, without wake.

"Hail them," James ordered.

A voice crackled over the radio-faint, distant, old. "This is the HMS Hood, sunk in 1941. We are the phantom fleet. We sail the storm, searching for a battle that no longer exists."

James stared at the ghostly ships. "How do we help you?"

"There is a rift at the bottom of the sea, a tear in time. If you destroy it with your depth charges, we will return to our proper time-not to life, but to rest."

James hesitated. The crews of the phantom fleet were watching, their faces hollow but hopeful.

"Do it," the voice said. "We've waited long enough."

James gave the order. The frigate dropped its depth charges, then turned away.

The explosion lit the storm. The phantom fleet shimmered, then faded.

When the sea calmed, the ships were gone.

James never spoke of what he had seen. But on quiet nights, when storms rolled in, he looked at the horizon and imagined the fleet sailing home-not to harbor, but to peace.

He returned to the coordinates every year, dropping flowers into the water.

"Rest well," he whispered.

And somewhere, in the deep, the phantom fleet drifted on-no longer lost, no longer searching, finally at peace.

James never forgot them. He never stopped listening for their radio call.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he thought he heard it-faint, distant, old-a reminder that some voyages never truly end.

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