The seafloor is not as solid as people think. At least, that is what my father always told me. He was a marine biologist—self-proclaimed, of course. No colleague, no company, no foundation wanted anything to do with him. Pseudo-Science, they called his studies. When I was little, He told me stories; Of ancient megalodons, of Atlantis, and squids mutated to sizes, the human mind could hardly comprehend. Of course, I believed these stories. What son would not believe the tales told to him by his father in the tranquil moments before bed? It was not until years later, after his passing, I found his notes.

I was not sure what I was looking at then. I tried to turn the notes into research institutions, colleges, even local museums. No one wanted anything to do with them. Of course, why would they? They were the notes of an old sailor. They were easily explained by reflections of water and sunken debris. So I found myself at a loss with what to do with them. I didn't like the notes. They where my father's life's work. They stood to mock me. Like an ever-present reminder, my father was not the man of science; I once believed him to be. Just a sailor who drank a bit to much. Years past. The notes sat snugly in my dresser. Socks and underwear covered them. Until one day, I decided to open the pages. I do not know what made me do it. Even after having them in my possession for years, I had done little more than skim the first few pages. They hurt me to read.

I stared at the notes all night. Not trying to understand the complicated footnotes and drawings, but just in awe of the creatures and places he had written about. Ships fused with animals that sail the deep seas, fish with the ability to slip through physical objects, and strangest of all, the seafloor. Alternatively, the sea ceiling as he referred to it. For it soon became apparent the 6.8-mile deep ocean his colleagues studied was not the same as my father's. For he believed the seafloor was completely permeable in various locations. That like quicksand, you could slip right through it, into a world untouched by man—a world of creatures that defy physics and find the city of its guardians.

More and more years passed. Decades even. I now often read the notes and became convinced my father was an author of sorts. For he was a good storyteller, and his notes must be but a crazy world-building exercise. It made the most sense, of course. It helped me sleep at night, thinking this. It helped me feel better when I failed to find information to disprove his notes, time, and time again.

I am old now. I lived a good life. I made lots of money, married a beautiful woman, had two sons who oversee my company together, so by all accounts, I've lived one of the best lives a man can. But not so. My father's work remains unfinished. What son would not finish his father's work? So now I leave you this note, my sons, my grandchildren, the world. Whoever wishes to know what happened to me, I tell you this: I've gone to finish what my father started. I've gone to the sea ceiling.

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