Winter in Connecticut didn’t arrive gently.
It didn’t nip at exposed skin or tease with a sharp breeze. It invaded. It crept into places it didn’t belong and refused to leave. The cold gnawed its way through the thin soles of my sneakers, climbed my legs inch by inch, and buried itself deep inside my bones, as if it intended to claim me permanently. This was the kind of cold that erased memory—the kind that made warmth feel like something imagined rather than lived.
My name is Lily.
At least, that’s what I thought it was.
I believed I was twelve, but on the streets, age doesn’t work the way it does for everyone else. There are no candles, no cakes, no wishes. Time is measured differently—by how many winters you survive.
And this was my third.
Snow blanketed the sidewalks like a quiet threat, disguising danger beneath something almost beautiful. My breath rose in pale clouds as I stood just outside the towering wrought-iron gates of the Sterling Estate. The mansion beyond them glowed against the night sky, radiant and unreal, like something torn straight from the pages of a fairy tale.
Warm golden light poured from enormous windows. Chandeliers shimmered inside, reflected by snow-covered grounds. I could hear music drifting faintly through the walls—soft strings, laughter layered over clinking glasses. The air itself smelled different here: rich food, herbs, polished wood, and perfume so expensive it felt heavy in my lungs.
A gala.
Inside, people were celebrating something—success, wealth, each other. Outside, I stood frozen, stomach twisted in hunger so sharp it made my vision blur.
Then came the voice.
“Move along, kid.”
I flinched instinctively.
Mike, the night security guard, sat inside a small heated booth near the gate. Steam fogged the glass from the coffee he cradled between his hands. He wasn’t cruel. Just exhausted in a way I recognized. The kind of tired that settles into a person and never fully leaves.
“I’m just looking,” I said quietly, tugging my oversized army jacket closer. It hung off me awkwardly, stained and torn, but it was the only barrier I had against the cold. My armor.
“Look somewhere else,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. “Mr. Sterling’s already tense tonight. Everything has to be flawless.”
He didn’t say the rest, but I heard it anyway.
If he sees you, there’ll be trouble.
I nodded like I always did. “Just the leftovers,” I whispered. “Like before. Back by the dumpsters.”
Mike sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. “Five minutes. That’s it. If Vicky spots you, I don’t know you.”
That was all the permission I needed.
I slipped through a narrow gap in the hedges—one Mike pretended not to notice. Snow crunched beneath my shoes, loud in the stillness. I should have gone straight toward the dumpsters, like always.
But something stopped me.
A pull in my chest. A quiet ache. A sense of familiarity I couldn’t explain.
You remember this place, a voice inside me whispered.
And before I could stop myself, my feet carried me closer to the house.
Chapter Two – Faces Behind Glass
Through the wide patio doors, I saw a world I didn’t belong to.
Men in tailored tuxedos stood in small groups, their laughter easy and careless. Women glided across polished floors in gowns that shimmered with every step, fabric catching the light like liquid stars. Everything inside seemed soft, warm, safe.
Then my eyes found him.
Richard Sterling.
His face was unmistakable—sharp, composed, powerful. I’d seen it countless times on discarded newspapers, the ones left behind on subway benches or stuffed into trash cans. Billionaire. Real estate magnate. A man whose name was synonymous with influence.
He stood apart from the crowd, holding a glass of dark amber liquid beneath a massive portrait hanging on the wall.
A woman stood beside him in the painting. She was radiant, her smile unguarded. And between them—a little girl with bright blue eyes and wild, uncombed hair.
My chest tightened.
Without realizing it, my fingers slipped beneath my layers of clothing and found the small silver locket resting against my skin. It was scratched and dented, simple and worn smooth by time. I didn’t remember where it came from, only that I’d never taken it off.
I didn’t remember much at all from before the accident.
Just fire. Screeching metal. Chaos.
Then foster homes. Running. Hiding.
But the locket—it felt like safety. Like someone holding my hand in the dark.
The patio door slammed open suddenly.
“I told you the tables were spaced incorrectly!”
Vicky, the event planner, burst outside, her heels slipping slightly on the snow. Panic surged through me. I turned too quickly, lost my footing—
CRASH.
A ceramic decoration shattered at my feet, pieces skidding across stone.
Inside, the music cut off abruptly. Silence followed, thick and suffocating.
“Security!” Vicky shrieked. “Mike!”
But Mike didn’t come.
Richard Sterling did.
Chapter Three – Shattered Silver
He stepped outside with deliberate steps, his presence commanding the space as completely as the mansion behind him. His eyes landed on me, and whatever humanity they might have held disappeared.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered, trying to stand. Pain exploded through my ankle.
His expression hardened.
“You’re a disgrace,” he snapped. “Polluting my property.”
Behind him, a woman appeared—pale, fragile, her eyes full of concern.
“Richard,” she said softly. “She’s just a child.”
“She’s a threat,” he barked, gripping my jacket and yanking me upright. “Get this trash out of here!”
Fear swallowed me whole.
“Let go!” I cried, struggling as he dragged me toward the gate. “Please!”
“You don’t belong here,” he hissed. “Go back to wherever you crawled out from!”
Then—
The chain snapped.
The locket flew free, spinning through the air, catching the garden lights before landing on the ground between us. It burst open on impact.
And everything stopped.
Richard froze.
He dropped to his knees slowly, as though the strength had drained from his body.
Inside the locket wasn’t a photograph.
It was an engraving.
A constellation.
Cassiopeia.
“I made this,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “For my daughter.”
The woman gasped.
“Richard,” she said, staring at me in horror and wonder. “Look at her eyes.”
His trembling hand reached up, brushing dirt from my cheek.
“Cassie?” he breathed.
The name hit me like lightning.
Something unlocked inside my chest.
My hand moved on its own, touching my shoulder.
The crescent-shaped scar.
Richard collapsed into the snow, sobbing.
“I almost lost you twice,” he choked. “I almost threw my own child away.”
Chapter Four – The Long Way Back
The guests stood frozen, their perfect world cracked open.
Vicky’s clipboard slipped from her hands. Mike stared in disbelief.
I stood there, shaking—not from the cold, but from something deeper. Fear. Confusion. Hope.
The woman—my mother—wrapped her arms around me, crying into my hair.
“You’re alive,” she whispered. “My baby.”
That night, I slept in a bed that didn’t shake from wind or sirens.
Doctors confirmed it. Records resurfaced. DNA told the truth.
My name wasn’t Lily.
I was Cassie Sterling.
The fire hadn’t taken my life.
It had taken my memories.
Richard never forgave himself—but he spent every day trying to make it right. He closed doors to empty extravagance and opened shelters instead. Built homes. Changed lives.
And every night, before turning out the light, he touched the silver locket and whispered the same words:
“I found you.”
