- 10.
Five years later, in early summer, I returned to Metropolis City with my husband and three–year–old son.
The location for the Authentication Museum had finally been finalized in the city’s most central area, and as the museum’s Chief Curator and Chief Restorer, I had to personally oversee the project’s launch.
The motorcade drove out of the airport. I held my drowsy son.
The driver reported that the road ahead would be temporarily closed. I had no choice but to have the team pause.
Outside the window, the familiar city atmosphere, the bustling crowds, taxis weaving through traffic. At the street corner, a street vendor was still haggling and shouting with young people.
Suddenly, the walkie–talkie at the end of the convoy crackled:
“Someone seems to be causing trouble under the overpass ahead, a few people have gathered/ Do you want to avoid it?”
As soon as he finished, Ms. Miller, my secretary, immediately pulled back the seatbelt I had just unbuckled, softly advising:
“Director, please don’t get out of the car yet. It might not be safe under the overpass.”
I instinctively lowered my head to comfort my son in my arms.
Unable to control my curiosity, I still got out of the car, my son’s chubby face nestled into
my
neck.
A group of passersby blocked the underpass completely.
Through a narrow gap, I saw two ragged homeless people fighting over a few pieces of moldy bread crumbs on the ground.
One had a dragging, crippled leg, his head covered in tangled hair that obscured half his face. The other had crisscrossing scars on her face, gray–white foam oozing from the corners of her lips.
They clawed and tore at each other, muttering incomprehensible, broken words.
I froze there.
No one noticed my tremor. It was Julian Sterling, now dragging a left leg that looked almost gangrenous.
And the other was Serena Hayes, her face like something out of a horror film.
I pulled my gaze away, clutching my son tighter, not looking back, and returned directly to the car.
Behind me, passersby instinctively covered their faces. Those outside the cordon still pressed forward to watch the fight between the ‘mad beggars, but I just silently urged the driv
11:12 AM P
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Behind me, passersby instinctively covered their faces. Those outside the cordon still pressed forward to watch the fight between the ‘mad beggars‘, but I just silently urged the driver to leave.
Later, the Sterling Antiques tower was renamed the Sterling Heritage Institute.
Rumor had it that Grandpa Sterling had donated a portion of his family’s equity to support art education for disadvantaged
youth.
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The institute was located at the former Sterling Antiques building, and I was primarily responsible for all academic frameworks and operational structures.
Every Wednesday, on lecture day, I taught the orphans adopted by the city.
Many of them were displaced children, forced to be wise beyond their years by reality.
I usually turned off the projector near the end of class, then turned to say:
“Remember this: your talent and your instincts, no one can ever take them away.”
Occasionally, a student would timidly ask:
“Professor, can you really tell the difference between an authentic piece and a forgery?”
I would just motion for them to try it themselves, then offer a faint smile, saying no more.
One day in December, the city’s homeless shelter sent an official letter.
The contents were simple: two individuals taken in from under the overpass last night were unidentified. During standard processing, their DNA partially matched records in my authorized contact list.
The administrative assistant asked if I wanted to contact relatives or claim the bodies.
I was organizing restoration files, and hearing this, I paused. I simply signed “Process as unclaimed remains” on the form.
The assistant seemed to want to offer another word of advice but ultimately retreated in silence.
I knew what this meant, and I understood that Julian Sterling and Serena Hayes’s current fate was inevitable.
The current me would not feel a ripple of emotion for their passing.
On the day they conspired to frame me and kicked me out of Sterling Antiques, no one asked if I wanted to turn back.
Three years later, I led my entire team to the New York branch to give a keynote speech, invited to host a specialized sharing session for global museum executives. Adrian Vance was always by my side.
He was impeccably dressed in a suit, his eyes bright, almost unchanged from five years ago, but with an added composure and the gentle warmth of a family man.
On the tenth–anniversary celebration, the plaza in front of the museum was adorned with congratulatory gifts sent from all over the world.
I sewed personalized badges for myself, my husband, and my son.
In this life all the
I sewed personalized badges for myself, my husband, and my son.
In this life, all the setbacks and humiliations had transformed into fleeting smoke.
This was Stella Sterling’s new beginning.
