Chapter 7
459words
Dust had settled over everything, the air thick with the scent of wood and aging paper. She blocked Alex everywhere, spending her days in complete silence with only memories and grief for company. Sometimes she wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake—fleeing one painful past only to dive headlong into another false future, ending in complete disaster.
One day, sorting through her father's papers, she discovered an annual report for the "David Easton Photography Memorial Fund"—a small foundation supporting young photographers. Scanning the donor list, she noticed an odd entry at the bottom: "Anonymous donation, from 'Northern Gallery'"—not a large sum, but marked as "annual regular donation."
She checked previous reports and found the donation had begun exactly three years ago, arriving at the same time each year without fail.
Lena's heart skipped. She looked up "Northern Gallery" and discovered it was located in a remote Vermont town.
When the call connected, an elderly but gentle voice answered. Lena explained her purpose and asked about the anonymous donation.
The gallery owner fell silent for a long moment, clearly struggling to remember.
"Ah... I remember now," he finally said. "About three years ago, a young man visited my gallery. He didn't purchase anything, but left some money, asking me to make an annual donation in the gallery's name to something called the 'Easton Foundation.'"
"A young man?" Lena's voice trembled slightly.
"Yes, tall, handsome fellow with a heavy camera bag. Said he might be going somewhere without phone service for quite a while," the old man paused. "Said his name was... Liam."
Lena's breath caught.
"He left a note too," the old man continued, his voice warm with memory. "Said if a woman named Lena ever came asking about this..."
Lena gripped the phone until her knuckles whitened.
"...give her the note."
"What does it say?" she asked, nearly begging.
The old man seemed to rummage around, then read in a slow, clear voice:
"Go photograph the stories that must be seen."
"...The stars will illuminate your viewfinder."
The phone slipped from Lena's grasp. She collapsed onto the cold floor, buried her face in her knees, and released a primal, animal wail of grief. He had known everything. Known she might retreat, hide, forget how to lift her camera. In his final moments, he hadn't just taken a bullet for her—he'd left a trail of starlight to guide her home.
She cried until the light outside shifted from white to gold. Then she rose, wiped her tears, and used her father's old computer to book a one-way ticket to the Middle East.
