Starlight in My Heart

After four years of fighting cancer, I could hold on no longer.

Before the end, I wanted one last look at the old Redbrick Factory housing where I’d lived with my parents.

Just as I moved to enter, a black Phaeton pulled up. Behind the window sat Gregory—the man I’d hated for seven years.

Impeccably dressed, a gleaming gold watch on his wrist, he looked at me as though I were a stranger.

“Why are you back?” he asked.

I tightened my grip on the old key in my pocket. “I’m going home. Is that a problem?”

Pushing the car door open, he stepped out and raised a hand as if to touch my forehead. I jerked away.

Between him and me, love had died a long time ago.

The time I had left belonged to me alone.

…

Winter in Rivermouth: the wind cut to the bone.

Hugging my threadbare coat tighter, I dragged a battered suitcase and stood before the rusted iron gate of the old Redbrick Factory housing like a ghost—a faded remnant out of place in its own past.

Seven years. Everything here looked unchanged, yet felt utterly different.

More plaster had flaked from the walls. Moss carpeted the corners, climbing almost to my waist. The air still carried that familiar, old-industrial scent of coal dust.

I was about to head inside when a black Phaeton glided silently to a stop beside me.

The window rolled down, revealing a familiar face. Gregory.

He wore a tailored cashmere coat. On his wrist, a Patek Philippe gold watch accentuated his sharp features—more pronounced, more distant than they’d been seven years before.

“Dorothy?”

He said my name, a thread of uncertainty in his tone.

I nodded. Said nothing.

What was there to say? *Long time no see*? Or, *Look, I’m dying, so I came back for a peek at what we used to call home*?

His gaze dropped to my misshapen, faded gray gloves. I’d knitted them myself years ago, embroidering a tiny ginkgo leaf on one with white thread.

Back then, he’d pointed to a ginkgo tree and said, “See how it holds its fan-shaped leaves until the bitter end? That’s loyalty.” I’d embroidered the leaf as a keepsake of that earnest, foolish promise.

Now he wore fine black leather gloves that matched his entire aura—expensive, detached, cold.

“Why… are you back?”

He seemed to choose his words carefully, finally settling on the most direct, and most cutting, question.

Right. Why—why *was* I back?

Tugging at the suitcase handle, I kept my voice barely a whisper, stolen by the wind. “I’m going home. Is that a problem?”

He frowned slightly, taken aback. *He’s not used to this*, I thought. *The old Dorothy was never prickly.*

Of course. The old Dorothy had always been gentle, always compliant with him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Stepping out of the car, his tall frame blocked the light in front of me. “Why are you dressed so lightly? You look pale.”

He