Chapter 104: Stars

Cecilia

The days that followed the blue roses were, without question, the most absurdly, overwhelmingly romantic days of my entire life.

Arthur seemed to have made it his personal mission to outdo himself every single morning, and the terrifying part was that he kept succeeding.

The third day, I found a note on Arthur's pillow: Meet me in the conservatory at sunset. Wear something comfortable.

I spent the entire day curious and slightly anxious, wondering what he'd planned this time. Alice, who clearly knew something, kept smirking at me over lunch and refusing to give any hints.

When sunset finally came, I made my way to the conservatory, pushing open the glass doors—

And stopped dead.

The entire space had been transformed into something out of a dream. The glass ceiling, usually clear and simple, now displayed a perfect projection of the night sky—not just any night sky, but something specific, something that made my breath catch when I recognized the constellation patterns.

"It's the sky from the night you were born," Arthur said from behind me, and I turned to find him standing near the piano, dressed casually in dark jeans and a simple sweater. "Twenty-two years ago, September fourteenth, at 11:47 PM. This is what the stars looked like."

I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe as I took in the rest of the transformation.

Suspended from invisible wires throughout the conservatory were thousands of crystal spheres. They hung at different heights, creating layers of light that made the whole room feel infinite.

"Come here," Arthur said, gesturing to the piano.

I crossed to him on shaky legs, and he guided me to sit on the bench, his hands warm and steady on my shoulders.

"Play something," he said softly. "Anything."

"Arthur, I can barely—"

"Just play, Ceci. Trust me."

I placed my fingers on the keys, and then the room came alive.

The crystal spheres began to pulse in time with the music, their lights brightening and dimming with each note, creating waves of illumination that rippled through the space.

The projected stars above shifted and moved, forming patterns that seemed to dance with the melody.

When I played a soft passage, the lights dimmed to a gentle glow. When I reached a crescendo, they blazed bright, and I could have sworn I saw shooting stars streak across the ceiling.

It was like the entire universe was responding to my music, like I was conducting not just a piano but the cosmos itself.

"Arthur." I stood and threw my arms around his neck. "This is—I don't even have words for what this is."

"You don't need words." His arms came around me, holding me close. "Just play for me. Play for as long as you want. The universe is listening."

The fourth day, Arthur woke me before dawn.

"Come on," he said, already dressed in casual clothes, pulling back the covers. "We're going sailing."

"Arthur, it's four in the morning—"

"Four-thirty," he corrected, completely unrepentant. "And we need to be on the water before sunrise. Trust me."

Twenty minutes later, we were on the estate's old wooden sloop, Arthur at the helm with the easy competence of someone who'd been sailing these waters his entire life, me bundled in one of his sweaters at the bow with a thermos of coffee that Mrs. Chen had somehow prepared despite the ungodly hour.

The ocean was calm, almost glassy, and the sky was still that deep blue-black that comes just before dawn. Arthur had brought blankets and pillows, arranging them in a nest at the front of the boat where I could recline and watch the sky.

"Where are we going?" I asked as he adjusted the sails, the boat cutting smoothly through the dark water.

"You'll see."

We sailed in comfortable silence, the only sounds the gentle lap of water against the hull and the occasional cry of a seabird. I watched Arthur work—his hands sure and steady on the lines, his face peaceful in a way I rarely saw it, like out here on the water he could finally let go of all the weight he usually carried.

The sky began to lighten at the horizon, deep blue fading to purple, then pink, then gold.

Arthur dropped anchor and came to sit beside me in the nest of blankets, pulling me against his chest so we were both facing east, toward the rising sun.

"I used to come out here alone," he said quietly, his chin resting on top of my head. "During those four years. When I couldn't sleep, when I missed you so much I thought I'd lose my mind. I'd sail out at dawn and watch the sun rise and tell myself that somewhere, you were seeing the same sun. That even though we were apart, we were still under the same sky."

The sun broke over the horizon, spilling gold across the water, turning the ocean into liquid light.

We stayed there for hours, wrapped in blankets and each other, watching the sun climb higher and turn the world bright and new.

The fifth day, Arthur led me into the estate's forest in the late afternoon, when the light was golden and slanting through the trees.

"Where are we going?" I asked, following him down a path I didn't recognize.

"You'll see." He glanced back at me with a small smile. "Do you trust me?"

"Always."

The path wound deeper into the woods, and then I saw them—lights beginning to glow as the shadows lengthened, suspended from the tree branches like captured stars.

Glass spheres, hundreds of them, each one illuminated from within.

"Arthur..." I moved closer to the nearest one and peered inside.

A photograph. Me at nine years old, gap-toothed and grinning, holding up a drawing I'd made.

"Keep going," Arthur said softly.

I walked slowly down the path, stopping at each sphere, my heart climbing into my throat as I recognized what he'd done.

Each sphere contained a piece of our history. Photographs, yes—me at ten, at twelve, at fifteen, Arthur in various stages of growing up beside me.

But also physical objects: a movie ticket stub from the first film we'd seen together, the wrapper from the candy he'd always bought me, a pressed flower from the estate gardens, a page torn from one of my old notebooks with terrible teenage poetry scribbled on it.

"How did you—" I turned to find him a few steps behind me, watching my reaction with careful attention. "Some of these things, I thought they were lost—"

"I kept them," he said simply. "All of it. Every drawing you gave me, every note you left, every small thing that reminded me of you. I couldn't let any of it go."

Further down the path, the spheres held more recent memories—a petal from the blue roses, even a small piece of fabric that I recognized with a shock.

"Is that—"

"From your dress," Arthur confirmed, his voice going slightly rough. "The blue one. From that night when you were eighteen. I kept a piece of it. I know that's—"

"That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," I interrupted, my eyes burning with tears.

The sixth day was quieter.

I came downstairs to find a trail of white ribbon leading from the bedroom door through the hallways and down to the kitchen.

I walked over curiously.