Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: The Rain in Chelsea and the Torn "Starry Mist"

In November 2023, London was shrouded in a dense, persistent rain, like shards of silver thread stuck to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the "Luminance" Gallery in Chelsea's art district, blurring the neon lights beyond. Seraphina Voss clutched her newly framed illustration "Nocturnal Fox," her knuckles whitening from the force. The walnut wood of the frame exuded a faint woody scent, but it couldn't mask the panic in her chest—this was the centerpiece she'd prepared for her lover Clara Bennett's "Stellar Mist" themed exhibition. In the fox's eyes lay all the tenderness she'd poured into Clara over two years: the dawn mist over the Thames, the evening neon of Chelsea streets, even the crumbs of blueberry muffin that had lingered on Clara's lips on her birthday. Warm light spilled from the gallery's windows, carrying an unfamiliar scent of gardenias—not the cedar perfume she usually wore. It pierced her nerves like a fine needle. She slowed instinctively; from the slightly ajar office door, Clara's laughter mingled with a woman's murmurs, light as feathers yet sharp as thorns: "Seraphina? She's nothing more than a 'draftsman' I hired," Clara's voice held a contempt Seraphina had never heard. "Once this exhibition ends, I'll break up with her—her style is too dark, reeks of street-level shabbiness, and doesn't fit my gallery's positioning." Seraphina's nails dug sharply into the frame's edge, black ink smudging between her fingers like tear stains. She thought of the past two years: renting a Kensington loft for Clara, spending most of her illustration fees each month; staying up all night revising gallery promotional materials, missing the interview for Cambridge's art program; even learning to make Clara's favorite almond croissants, just to see her smile at breakfast. But it turned out that what she'd thought were "proofs of love" were merely "useful tools" in Clara's words. She didn't push the door open to confront her—pride forbade her from losing composure now. Raindrops dampened her camel coat; in her pocket, the newly bought almond croissant's paper bag had gone soft from the moisture. She turned into the rain, no umbrella in sight on Chelsea's streets. Cold rain trickled down her curls into her collar, stinging her skin like countless fine needles. When she returned to the loft, the hallway light was still on—the one she'd left on specially for Clara that morning. The living room walls were covered with portraits she'd painted of Clara: Clara's profile feeding pigeons in Hyde Park, Clara blowing out birthday candles with a smile, even the sketch Clara had complained made her "look too fat" yet secretly had framed. These images that once made her feel "home" now seemed like mocking jokes, stinging her eyes until they watered. She dragged her suitcase from the storage room, its wheels thudding against the floor. She stuffed Clara's clothes, jewelry, even that "favorite" portrait into cartons in one go. In her haste, books from the bottom shelf fell, and a yellowed copy of Yeats' poetry collection hit the ground, a letter tucked inside fluttering out. It was a draft love letter from 2017, addressed to Clara, dated during Cambridge's cherry blossom season. Back then, freshly rejected by Clara, tears blurring her vision, she'd only remembered handing the letter to the passing Elara Hale—that perpetual top student, that forever cold-faced "rival." Later, classmates said Elara had thrown the letter into the Cam. Seraphina knelt, her fingertips brushing the smudged writing on the letter, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. She slipped the letter back into the poetry book, then placed it along with her grandmother's silver bracelet into a jewelry box—the only keepsake she had, sent from her Polish hometown, with her grandmother's name "Zofia" engraved inside. "Click"—the sound of the lock turning. Clara pushed the door open, her smile freezing instantly at the sight of cartons scattered everywhere. "Seraphina, what are you doing?" She stepped forward, trying to grasp Seraphina's wrist, her tone artificially soft: "It's my fault. The client forced me to say those things this morning, I just..." "No need to explain." Seraphina pulled her hand away. The almond croissant fell from her coat pocket, the paper bag splitting, golden crumbs spilling across the floor. She looked into Clara's flustered eyes, feeling陌生 for the first time. "We're done, Clara." Before Clara could say more, Seraphina had lifted her suitcase. On the shoe cabinet by the door sat the blueberry jam she'd bought for Clara the day before—Clara always said "bread needs two layers of jam to be sweet enough." She didn't touch it, leaving the jam to cool slowly in the morning light, just like their two-year relationship, never to warm again. The rain still fell as Seraphina dragged her suitcase into Chelsea's night. She didn't know where she was going, only that she couldn't look back—that web of lies called "Stellar Mist" was finally dissipating.