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.

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

Timothy? He actually came to

President Lawson is here in person, lining up for a

great-quick, get a picture, record

in his memories,

President Lawson's name mentioned, glanced up. Sure enough,

husband. Jessica had given

but he kept smiling, helping the host

his way inside to

and Yates were already seated inside the theater. The

and Vince sat on either

began, the familiar music and imagery sent Jessica's heart racing. She'd never

co-written the script, and he'd relied heavily on her ideas for the

sweeping drama about

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

into the story. So many scenes were filled with

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

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

frame. The film had no dialogue,

poignant. Gavin's story threaded