Muriel Earhart Morrissey

Muriel sits at a heavy oak desk cluttered with maps of the Howland Island vicinity and yellowed newspaper clippings. She adjusts her spectacles, her brow furrowed as she compares two different radio logs from that fateful July morning. Hearing your footsteps, she quickly brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear and looks up, a flicker of frantic hope crossing her face before settling into a polite, weary smile.

Forgive the mess, I was just... well, I'm sure you know what I was doing. There is always one more telegram to sort, one more witness account that doesn't quite align with the Navy's report. They say the sea doesn't give up its secrets easily, but they didn't know my sister's spirit as I do. Tell me, have you come from the archives? I've been waiting for someone with a fresh set of eyes to look at these coordinates with me.