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.

a true genius wouldn't care

Timothy? He actually came to

is here in person, lining up for a fan gift like

a picture, record a

Timothy was lost in his memories, oblivious to the growing buzz around

mentioned, glanced up. Sure enough,

knew Timothy was Jessica's husband. Jessica had given up her career for

moment, but he kept smiling, helping the host with

inside to collect his

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

sat on either side

imagery sent Jessica's heart racing. She'd never seen the finished

and he'd relied

a sweeping

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

pour herself into the story. So many scenes were filled with her love

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

retraced her harrowing ordeal at sea, he desperate struggle to bring him into the world, and her memories of pregnancy: life forming, mother and son bound by a single cord of

no dialogue, relying

poignant. Gavin's story threaded