The gate was wrought iron, eight feet high, forged with stylized ivy leaves that twisted into sharp,

elegant points. It was designed to keep the world out, or perhaps to keep the sorrow inside.

Grant Hawthorne walked the gravel path toward it, his leather-soled shoes crunching rhythmically against the stone. With every stride, the anger in his chest fought against an exhausting numbness. Behind him sat twenty-eight empty white chairs, an untouched galaxy cake, and a little girl in a wheelchair trying her hardest not to let her father see her cry.

He reached the gate and stopped.

On the other side of the bars stood a girl. She was small, thin-framed, perhaps eight or nine years old, with tangled chestnut hair pulled back by a faded yellow rubber band. Her denim jacket had frayed cuffs where the white lining peeked through like split bone, and her canvas sneakers were stained with old street salt and dust. In her small hands, she held an ordinary brown paper grocery bag, neatly folded over three times at the top to form a makeshift envelope.

"Hi," she said again. Her voice carried no tremble, only the cautious politeness of someone accustomed to being told she was standing in the wrong place. "I’m Sky."

Grant gripped the iron bar. His voice, usually commanding in boardrooms where millions hung on his inflection, felt gravelly and thick. "Hello, Sky. Are you lost?"

Sky shook her head. "No, sir. I saw the balloons above the trees from the bus stop down on Mercer Street. And then I heard the music." She glanced past his shoulder toward the vast lawn, her gray-blue eyes widening slightly at the sight of the shimmering silk canopies, the carousel of untouched pastries, and the silent magician packing his black trunk. "Is it a party?"

"It was supposed to be," Grant said quietly. He glanced past her down the private avenue, half expecting an anxious parent or a social worker to come rushing around the bend. "Where are your parents, Sky? It's not safe to walk up this hill alone."

"My mom is sleeping. She works third shift at the laundry plant," the girl explained simply. She held up the brown paper bag. "I saw the girl by the window earlier this week. In the chair with the silver wheels. I see her when the county bus stops at the light. She has the telescope, right?"

Grant’s throat constricted. "Yes. She loves space."

"I brought this," Sky said, extending the bag through the narrow gap between two iron bars. "I didn't have wrapping paper. But I made it. For her birthday."

Grant didn't take it immediately. The suspicious billionaire inside him—the man whose security team swept every package, whose life was walled off by nondisclosure agreements and corporate rivals—hesitated. But then he looked down at the frayed cuffs of her jacket and the sincerity in her clear, untroubled gaze.

"You don't even know her name," Grant murmured.

"Her name is Nova," Sky answered. "She wears a blue jacket with stars on it. It’s on the mailbox down there, too. 'Hawthorne.' I asked the librarian at Queen Anne branch who lived here. She said a very smart girl who looks at the stars."

A breeze swept through the garden, rustling the golden ribbons on the twenty-eight empty chairs.

From behind him, a small, mechanical hum sounded.

Grant turned. Nova was navigating her electric wheelchair down the flagstone ramp, Juny Park walking close beside her with an anxious hand hovered near the control joystick.

"Dad?" Nova’s voice floated across the lawn, clear and hesitant. "Who is that?"

Grant looked back at Sky. The little girl on the sidewalk wasn't intimidated by the sprawling limestone mansion or the looming security cameras. She simply stared past Grant at Nova, a shy, pure smile breaking across her chapped lips.

"Nova," Grant said, his decision snapping into place with sudden, undeniable clarity. He pressed the remote key fob in his pocket. The heavy iron latch clicked. The massive gate swung open with a deep, smooth groan.

"Nova," Grant repeated, stepping aside. "Your guest has arrived."

Sky stood on the threshold, her worn sneakers resting on the dividing line between cracked public asphalt and polished private stone. She looked down at her shoes, then up at Nova, whose eyes had widened until they looked like twin moons.