Chapter 9 - Chapter 8: Constellations

Phoebe Gallagher's recovery unfolded in small, hard-won victories. Her laughter became a little brighter each day and her steps became more assured as the spring light spilled through narrow London windows. She began to write letters again, in looping script, stacking them on the kitchen table as if she could use her writing to will the future into being. It had been too long since she'd seen Simon's face not through the haze of memory, but in the warm immediacy of presence. Now, with her son Shane off at university in Dublin and her own health more stable, a longing blossomed fierce and insistent: to gather her sons at last, to be more than a ghost in their stories. Phoebe reached for her phone one morning, her heart thumping A mother's intuition, she would later call it, but perhaps it was simply hope refusing to be quiet. She dialled Tom Harrington's number. The line clicked, and his voice came gentle, wary with questions she did not yet know how to ask. "Tom, I need your help. I want Simon to meet Shane. He's in Dublin, studying architecture, always with his head in the clouds…" She trailed off, smiling at the image. "But he's never met his brother. I think… I think that it's time." Tom promised that he would arrange everything, but Phoebe hesitated before hanging up. "Tom—can I ask you something, just between us?" He laughed nervously. "Of course. You can ask me anything." "Are you in love with my Simon?" There was a silence, then a breath so soft that she almost missed it. "I… yes. I think I have been in love with him for years. But we've circled around it, danced at the edges. I don't know how he feels. Maybe I never will." Phoebe's voice warmed with a mother's knowing tenderness. "You care deeply. That's what matters. Sometimes, love is in the caring—let him see that. Don't hide, Tom. The world already has enough secrets." He promised, and for the first time in a long while, Tom felt the possibility of hope, fragile but real. It was a constellation beginning to form in the night sky of his life. Meanwhile, Simon's company was thriving. The eco-system that he had helped to build was becoming an industry standard, drawing praise and envy in equal measure. Partnerships flourished, and with them came invitations to summits and panels across Europe and Africa. The latest was in Dublin—a perfect coincidence, or perhaps the universe conspiring, where innovation leaders from across the continent would gather. Simon accepted the invitation, his mind on the business, but his heart was already wandering to thoughts of family, and a brother he only knew by name. On the afternoon of the first summit session, Simon found himself seated beside a man whose presence seemed to draw the air in the room taut—a quiet authority radiating from his every gesture. His name, which was delivered with a clipped Ugandan accent, was Yusufu Matovu. To the world at large, Matovu was a visionary in sustainable development. He was charming, enigmatic and was always carving paths where others only saw walls. But beneath the polished veneer, certain shadows lingered—shadows that even he barely acknowledged. As they exchanged ideas — Simon speaking passionately about his designs for community-run solar grids, Yusufu countering with visions of empowerment from Kampala's forgotten neighbourhoods — there flickered, for Yusufu, a disturbance beneath the surface. In Simon's face something familiar moved, a shape or glance that sent tremors through memories that had been long suppressed. Years before, Yusufu had desperately wanted a young woman—her name never spoken, but her presence unforgettable. She had rebuffed him, resisting every advance with quiet dignity. One evening, driven by reckless pride and the encouragement of those who followed him, Yusufu had crossed an unforgivable line with the help of his bodyguards, taking what was never his to claim. That night had vanished into the mists of his past, relegated to a dark, silent place within him, unspoken and unexamined. But now, as Yusufu listened to Simon, watched him gesture and heard a particular cadence in his voice, the past surged forward, unbidden. The memory, once blurred and distant, sharpened with every passing moment. He realised, with the cold weight of regret, that he had never known the woman's name. But seeing Simon brought her back, alive and unyielding in his conscience. Even as he thought of her, his mind flinched from the memory of what he had done to the woman, what he had taken from her. It was something that he never allowed himself to think about. There were plenty of excuses he allowed himself if he accidentally probed too deeply, and he never allowed himself to face his actions head-on. Yusufu found himself wishing that he could ask Simon about his upbringing, to trace the lines of history backward in a desperate search for redemption or understanding. But the moment passed, the questions caught in his throat and he understood with a pang that it was too late. All he could do was watch as Simon moved through the world—brilliant, compassionate, the sort of son who Yusufu had once imagined for himself, before life divided itself into before and after his wife's accident. The conversation between them ended with a handshake—firm and lingering just a moment too long. They parted with promises to collaborate, but as Simon turned away, Yusufu felt the ache of a family lost and a longing for what could never be repaired. Later that night, as rain painted the city of Dublin in silver, Tom met Simon in the hotel bar and found him lost in thought. Before either of them could speak of the future, of Shane, of love or of all the things a parent's intuition might know, the past circled quietly, waiting for its cue.