Mrs. McGee spread her grandmother's letters across the kitchen table and admitted she was chasing a ghost. The heirloom had been stolen from her family four generations ago and hidden somewhere in Stardust. She had traveled two days to get here. She still did not know what the thing looked like. The letters contradicted each other. One called it a locket. Another called it a key. A third mentioned only "the piece that shines under water." Mrs. McGee pressed her thumb to that line. Her poodle sat at her feet, watching her face the way he always did when she went quiet too long. "Russell," she said, "if I walk past it, I've come all this way for nothing." She pulled on her boots and took the letters with her. The innkeeper had mentioned three places tied to the old stories: a ruined tower choked in ivy, a cave the locals called a fairy's hiding spot, and a pond ringed with mushrooms where children were told not to swim. Mrs. McGee started with the tower because it was closest. Ivy had swallowed the door. She found nothing inside but bird nests and broken stone. The cave came next. Shelves inside held bottles, crystals, and trinkets left by strangers over the years. Mrs. McGee sorted through them with shaking hands. Every piece could have been the heirloom. None of them felt like it. Russell whined and refused to come inside. She left with a headache and no answer. By late afternoon she reached the pond. Toadstools crowded the bank in every color. She sat down in the grass and opened her grandmother's letters again. "The piece that shines under water." She read the line three times. Then she looked at the pond. Russell pushed past her before she could stop him. He waded in up to his chest, sniffed the surface, and barked once at his own reflection. Mrs. McGee stood. In the flat water beside him, she saw white flowers mirrored back at her. She turned. Behind her, half hidden in the mushrooms, someone had left an arrangement of calla lilies in a stone jar. Fresh ones. Someone tended this place. Someone knew the story too. Mrs. McGee knelt by the flowers. A folded paper was tucked among the stems. She opened it. The handwriting was not her grandmother's, but the sketch on the paper was clear: a small oval pendant, cut glass, with a lily pressed inside it. She finally knew what she was looking for. She also knew she was not the only one looking. Russell shook pond water from his coat. Mrs. McGee folded the sketch into her pocket and stared at the fresh lilies. Whoever left them had been here today.

Mrs. McGee stayed by the pond until the light turned gray. She held the sketch flat on her knee and studied it again. A glass pendant. A pressed lily. Someone had drawn it from memory, or from life. Either way, that person had stood where she was standing now, and not long ago. She needed to find them before the other searcher did. She walked back to the inn with Russell at her heel. The lilies in her mind were fresh. Fresh flowers meant a florist, a garden, or a picker. Stardust was small. Someone would know who cut white lilies this week. She started with the market square. Most stalls were closing. A woman folding aprons at the flower stand shook her head. No calla lilies this season. Nobody had asked for any either. Mrs. McGee showed her the sketch, folded to hide the pendant, and pointed only at the flower. The woman shrugged. Mrs. McGee tried the bakery, the post, and the shop that sold soap. Each time she got the same answer. No lilies. No strangers asking odd questions. Russell sat by every door and waited, patient as furniture. By dusk she stood in the square with nothing. The sketch felt heavier in her pocket than it had that morning. Somewhere in this town, a person who knew the pendant's face was moving faster than she was. She had no name. No direction. No thread to pull. Russell lifted his head. He was staring at a bench across the square. A small figure sat on it, feet swinging above the cobblestones. He wore a white suit with blue trim and a round glass helmet that fogged and cleared with each breath. His eyes were huge and dark inside the bubble. On his lap he held a stone jar. Three calla lilies leaned out of it. Russell walked to him without being called. The small figure reached out one gloved hand and let the poodle sniff it. "You're the lady with the letters," he said. His voice was thin through the glass. "The innkeeper told me." Mrs. McGee sat down slowly on the far end of the bench. "You left the flowers." "I leave them every week." He turned the jar in his hands. "My name is Eddie. I'm not from here. I came a long way too." He looked at her sideways. "You drew the pendant?" "You drew it," she said. Eddie nodded once. "I've seen it. I know where it was last. I don't know where it is now." He paused. "Someone moved it three days ago." Mrs. McGee's hands went cold. Three days. Her rival was already ahead. "Tell me where it was," she said. Eddie held out the jar of lilies. "I'll show you. But we go tonight. After tonight, the trail is gone."