Chapter 23 She wore a cream skirt suit cut to move, standing straight and sure. Her hair was swept into a clean twist that bared her brow and the long line of her neck. She spoke with a cluster of foreign buyers, her smile easy, her delivery fluent, her hands precise. She carried the kind of energy and shine you see on people who have built something with both brains and grit. She was so beautiful in that moment he couldn't look straight at her. He felt nailed in place. His heart clenched in a cold fist, then let go in a spasm that hurt enough to steal his breath. Worlds apart. That was the truth of it. She flew bright and high, beyond anything he would have imagined for her-beyond anything he could reach. He was a bent man from the winter country, worn down by illness and remorse, scraping by at the edge of things. He didn't have the courage to go to her. He didn't have the right. Even the smallest intrusion would trespass on the life she had earned. So he stayed behind the tide of bodies, a shadow in the crowd, and looked his fill-greedy and hurting and far away-as if he could etch the sight into his bones and carry it off. Then he turned. He hunched against a fit of coughing and walked out of a city that wasn't his, swallowed by the sea of strangers. He knew it for what it was-goodbye. They were of two different worlds now. Their lines would not cross again. Angela felt a prickle and glanced that way-a blur of heads, and the brief shape of an older man, hunched, already gone. She let it go and turned back to work. Her world was wide and full, alive with new opportunities; there was no trace of Gideon Holt left in it. Later, she and that like-minded coastal investor chose each other. Respect first, then love. They married and had a son and a daughter thed, and let the last. The home they built was warm and steady. Years on, a northern winter stacked heavy snow against a cracked window. In a shabby room, Gideon lay dying. He was wasted to sticks, breath shallow, alone. His fingers clutched a thin, yellowed note that read [ I'm gone ], like it could keep him from sinking. He watched the whiteness beyond the glass as it blurred and dimmed. In the haze he saw a girl from long ago in a bright dress, eyes lit like stars, looking only at him. "Angela," he breathed, and let the last of the air go; a tear finally slid from the corner of his eye and went cold as it touched his skin. Meanwhile, in sun-washed Houston, a garden patio held a different scene. Angela-now a name people quoted as proof that grit could change a life-sat in a wicker chair with a cup of tea. Grandkids tumbled and Chapter 23 100.00% laughed. Her husband settled a shawl over her shoulders. Her smile was soft and content. She let the peace of an ordinary good day soak in. Her story had already gone on to light others. Northern snow and southern sun. A quiet ending and a life in full. Regret without end and a happiness earned. Two lines, running forever apart. Time did what it always does. It moved on. Florence Florence is a passionate reader who finds joy in long drives on rainy days. She's also a fan of Italian makeup tutorials, blending beauty and elegance into her everyday life.