Victoria rose, tears streaming, and joined her daughter on the stage.
Together they hung a new plaque on the wall where the ice sculpture had once stood:
FOR EVERY CHILD STILL WAITING YOUR STAR IS STILL SHINING AND SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING IT HOME
That night, mother and daughter stood on the terrace of Ashford Manor—rebuilt years ago, but only now truly whole again—and looked up at the Georgia sky.
“See that one?” Victoria whispered, pointing. “The brightest. That’s been your star all along.”
Rosie rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, the pendant warm against her skin.
“I’m home, Mama.”
“Yes, baby,” Victoria answered, kissing her forehead exactly as she had twenty-five years and one lifetime ago. “You finally are.”
