Goodbye, Mr. Regret

As for the brooch, she never accepted it. Just the sight of it made her angry.

And then there was that last gift bag left unopened on the bedroom Christmas tree.

"You did nothing wrong-it was all my fault. Go take care of it," Timothy said, ending the call. He bought himself a ticket to an early screening.

At the theater's promotional booth, he queued up to claim a fan gift-merchandise inspired by the movie's characters. Timothy received a glass bottle ornament with a tiny photo inside: the film's main characters, mother and son, smiling together. The glass sparkled in the light, beautiful and delicate.

He examined the character designs. The aesthetic was unmistakably Jessica's.

It felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. He couldn't breathe; his chest ached.

Timothy's gaze drifted toward the director, Carlisle, and he couldn't help recalling the day Yates had come to deliver the film materials. Vince had swooped in, snapping up the movie rights.

Had Vince already known, even then, how closely Jessica was connected to this film?

Timothy still didn't know exactly how, but the mere thought nearly gave him a heart attack.

Back then, he'd had the audacity to tell Yates he wanted to acquire the film for Sheila, to give her top billing, all so he could find a strong, dramatic role to launch her career.

Vince had reminded him that his own wife was an animator too.

had he said in response? That a true genius wouldn't care about such

Timothy? He actually came

person, lining up for a

looks great-quick, get a picture,

lost in his memories, oblivious to the growing buzz around

Lawson's name mentioned, glanced up.

husband. Jessica had given up

but he kept smiling, helping

to collect

Yates were already seated inside the theater. The three of them were the only

and Vince sat on either side of

sent Jessica's heart racing. She'd never seen the finished cut before-she'd wanted to preserve the

co-written the script, and he'd relied heavily

at its heart, a sweeping

time, she'd been thinking so much about her own son that

not to pour herself into the story. So many scenes were filled with her

in 2088: Mothers who'd died in childbirth journeyed to the Fetal Sea. Each umbilical corde transformed into a glass bottle adrift on the waves, every bottle containing a letter. If the letter failed to reach its destination, the bottle would shatter and the lost soul would remain forever trapped in the

left to him by his late mother-the film retraced her harrowing ordeal at sea, he desperate struggle to

see Carlisle's painstaking attention in every frame. The film had no dialogue, relying on visuals to express everything, making every detail all the

poignant. Gavin's story threaded