In Forever

Rain slicked the city streets, turning asphalt into silver mirrors beneath the yellow burn of the streetlights. Cars rolled through puddles with soft hisses. In the distance, a siren wailed and faded into the cold night. On the third floor of an old apartment building, Elias Carter sat alone at a small wooden table. A cup of instant coffee rested between his palms. The ceramic had gone cold against his skin, but he didn't notice. The apartment held its usual quiet. Most days, Elias called it peace. After years of shouting foremen and crowded buses, silence felt like a reward. Tonight, it just felt empty. His gaze drifted across the cramped room. Wallpaper peeled at the corners like dead skin. A brown water stain spread across the ceiling above the rusted sink. The heater in the corner coughed and rattled every few minutes, as if each breath might be its last. The apartment was old. Small. Worn down. But it had once held laughter. His eyes stopped on a shelf beside the window. Framed photographs stood in a crooked line. A gap-toothed girl beamed at the camera, clutching a crayon drawing of a rainbow. Another showed her drowning in an oversized school uniform, holding a certificate with both hands like a holy relic. In the last one, she clung to his leg backstage, her face buried in his jeans, terrified before her first piano recital. Every photo carried the same bright, unbroken smile. Ivy. Then there was the newest picture. Not a family photo. A magazine ad ripped from a glossy page. Under hot studio lights, Ivy Carter—now known to the world as Ivy Vale—posed in a sparkling purple gown. Diamonds clung to her throat. Her smile was sharp, polished, confident enough to sell anything. National Sweetheart. Rising Actress of the Year. Elias stared at the image for a long moment. Then he lowered his eyes. "You did it," he whispered. No bitterness. Only pride. And a sadness so quiet it barely breathed. His shoulder throbbed from hauling cement bags all morning. At thirty-five, his body moved like fifty. His hands were rough, crosshatched with tiny scars. His back ached with the memory of every sun-scorched shift. He never complained. Every double shift. Every blister that burst and healed into another scar. Every dinner he skipped so she could have lunch money. Every night he went to bed hungry so she wouldn't have to. All of it funneled into one purpose. So Ivy could escape. He reached for his phone. He already knew what would happen, but he dialed anyway. The phone rang once. Twice. Then her cheerful recorded voice cut in. "Hi, you've reached Ivy. I can't answer right now—" He ended the call before the beep. A small, tired smile crossed his face. "Same voicemail," he murmured. He set the phone down. For months, every call had ended exactly like this. At first, he told himself she was busy. Movie shoots. Red carpets. Award shows. She was climbing fast. But busy people still found ten seconds to text. Didn't they? He rubbed his forehead. A dull ache pressed behind his eyes. Maybe she changed her number. Maybe her manager blocked his calls. Maybe— A knock at the door. Elias frowned. Who knocks at this hour? The knock came again—sharper this time. He rose slowly. His knees popped as he crossed the room. Passing the cracked mirror by the door, he caught his reflection. A few strands of gray threaded through his black hair. Dark circles sat beneath tired eyes. His face carried the quiet ruin of a man who had spent his whole life worrying about someone else. He opened the door. His breath caught. "Ivy..." For one fleeting second, he didn't see the famous actress whose face loomed over bus stops and billboards. He saw the little girl who used to crawl into his bed during thunderstorms. The little sister who refused to close her eyes unless he made up a story on the spot. Relief flooded his chest. "You came home." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. But Ivy didn't smile. Her eyes swept past him, scanning the apartment behind his shoulder. Not with fondness. With discomfort. Almost embarrassment. Elias recognized that look. He had seen it on social workers, on landlords, on anyone who stepped through this door from a nicer world. Still, he stepped aside. "Come in," he said warmly. "I'll make some tea. You always liked the honey one." "No." Her answer came quickly. Sharp. It cut through the air between them like a blade. Rain tapped a restless rhythm against the roof. Behind Ivy, two men in black suits stood beside a sleek black car idling at the curb. Security. Or assistants. Either way, they looked impatient. The few feet between Elias and his sister suddenly stretched into a canyon. "I don't have much time," Ivy said. She reached into her expensive handbag and pulled out a folded set of papers. "Sign these." Elias took them without a word. His eyes dropped to the title. FAMILY SEVERANCE AGREEMENT He stared at the black letters. His fingers tightened slowly around the paper, crumpling the edge. "I'm sorry..." he said quietly. "What is this?" "My management suggested it." "Your management?" She nodded, still not meeting his eyes. "They think our relationship could become a problem. If people learn about where I came from... it could damage my career." Where I came from. The tiny apartment. The poor block. Him. A quiet laugh escaped Elias—dry, brittle, startled out of him before he could swallow it. Ivy frowned. "What's funny?" He shook his head. "Nothing." But the memories came anyway. A five-year-old girl sobbing herself to sleep after their mother's funeral. Walking three miles to school because the bus fare was too much. Working a night shift at a diner, then a morning shift at a warehouse, so she could afford a used uniform. Selling their mother's wedding band to pay for vocal lessons. Going to bed hungry so Ivy never had to. Every sacrifice. Every dream he buried. Every promise he made to a little girl who clung to his hand and said, "One day, I'm going to make you proud." And now— The little girl he raised stood before him like a stranger. Not because she hated him. Because she was ashamed of him. For the first time in months, the silence between them felt louder than the rain.