Today, 01:58 AM
The simple phrase landed with a quiet, unexpected force, silencing the chaotic echoes of the countdown that had just reached its crescendo inside the building. The surrounding air, already sharp with the New Year’s cold, seemed to sharpen further despite the comfort of the invisible blanket of warmth cradling both their shoulders, focusing entirely on those two words. Daphne’s cold composure fractured, just at the edge, a momentary tremor of disbelief rippling through her. Happy birthday. January 1st. It was official. She’d entirely forgotten in the consuming urgency of her objective.
She felt a warmth blossom in her chest, tiny and shy a delicate flower in an icy landscape. Surprise at the remembrance was the most prominent sensation, quickly followed by a rush of affectionate humility. Eve had remembered. Her friend, so preoccupied with her own significant, unspoken burdens the recent, quiet sadness Daphne had sensed had paused on this night to acknowledge something so personal and often-overlooked about her.
The smile that formed on Daphne’s lips was thin, a pale curve of genuine gratitude she rarely showed. “Thank you, Eve,” she murmured, the usual crystal coolness of her voice softened by the sincere, almost childlike pleasure of being thought of.
But the moment’s sweetness curdled quickly, soured by the larger, overriding purpose that had brought her here. My birthday. The day she was born. The annual, unavoidable landmark that screamed of an origin she did not know, of parents she had never met, and of the Volthströms who had chosen her. She was so close now, perhaps within the very walls of the gallery or so she desperately hoped.
Her gaze met Eve's, and she felt the palpable sense of curiosity billowing off her friend, a silent question mark hanging in the frigid air. Eve was waiting. Waiting for an explanation of her presence in Manhattan, in this specific, artistic, very un-Daphne-like party.
The temptation to unspool the entire, messy thread of her adoption, the search, the cold trail leading to this gallery, and the hope of finding the owner tonight was immediate and overwhelming. She adored Eve. She was the one person whose judgment she valued and whose presence brought a profound, if quiet, comfort.
No. Eve had her own issues to manage. The gentle grief and quiet sadness were undeniable, relating to Gui and other things. Daphne did not want to burden her with the cold, sterile reality of the Volthström’s secrecy or the anxiety of her own identity crisis. She couldn’t inflict her problems on a friend already choosing a fresh start.
Yet, Eve’s gaze was steady, warm, and utterly non-judgmental. The curiosity was not intrusive, but an invitation. An anchor she could hold onto.
She inhaled deeply, the fresh air strengthening her throat, and made the decision. Truth. It was time.
“I am here because of this place,” she began, her tone returning to its familiar, controlled register, though a new, sharp edge of determination lay beneath it. “Not the party, or the art, but the gallery itself. I believe it is connected to my birth parents, and my adopted parents, the Volthströms.” She paused, allowing the weight of that statement to settle. “I have been searching for the owner of the building. Whom I now suppose is Mademoiselle Rosewood.”
Daphne’s blue eyes were fixed on Eve, cool and distant, but with a flicker of intense focus in their depths. “I came tonight hoping to find her. Do you know anything about this gallery, Eve? Or its owner?”
She felt a warmth blossom in her chest, tiny and shy a delicate flower in an icy landscape. Surprise at the remembrance was the most prominent sensation, quickly followed by a rush of affectionate humility. Eve had remembered. Her friend, so preoccupied with her own significant, unspoken burdens the recent, quiet sadness Daphne had sensed had paused on this night to acknowledge something so personal and often-overlooked about her.
The smile that formed on Daphne’s lips was thin, a pale curve of genuine gratitude she rarely showed. “Thank you, Eve,” she murmured, the usual crystal coolness of her voice softened by the sincere, almost childlike pleasure of being thought of.
But the moment’s sweetness curdled quickly, soured by the larger, overriding purpose that had brought her here. My birthday. The day she was born. The annual, unavoidable landmark that screamed of an origin she did not know, of parents she had never met, and of the Volthströms who had chosen her. She was so close now, perhaps within the very walls of the gallery or so she desperately hoped.
Her gaze met Eve's, and she felt the palpable sense of curiosity billowing off her friend, a silent question mark hanging in the frigid air. Eve was waiting. Waiting for an explanation of her presence in Manhattan, in this specific, artistic, very un-Daphne-like party.
The temptation to unspool the entire, messy thread of her adoption, the search, the cold trail leading to this gallery, and the hope of finding the owner tonight was immediate and overwhelming. She adored Eve. She was the one person whose judgment she valued and whose presence brought a profound, if quiet, comfort.
No. Eve had her own issues to manage. The gentle grief and quiet sadness were undeniable, relating to Gui and other things. Daphne did not want to burden her with the cold, sterile reality of the Volthström’s secrecy or the anxiety of her own identity crisis. She couldn’t inflict her problems on a friend already choosing a fresh start.
Yet, Eve’s gaze was steady, warm, and utterly non-judgmental. The curiosity was not intrusive, but an invitation. An anchor she could hold onto.
She inhaled deeply, the fresh air strengthening her throat, and made the decision. Truth. It was time.
“I am here because of this place,” she began, her tone returning to its familiar, controlled register, though a new, sharp edge of determination lay beneath it. “Not the party, or the art, but the gallery itself. I believe it is connected to my birth parents, and my adopted parents, the Volthströms.” She paused, allowing the weight of that statement to settle. “I have been searching for the owner of the building. Whom I now suppose is Mademoiselle Rosewood.”
Daphne’s blue eyes were fixed on Eve, cool and distant, but with a flicker of intense focus in their depths. “I came tonight hoping to find her. Do you know anything about this gallery, Eve? Or its owner?”
![[Image: Daphne-sig-updated.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/Daphne-sig-updated.jpg)