Julian Sterling was thirty-four years old when he was invited to a salon on the deck of the Atlanticata, a luxury liner that was sailing between New York and Paris. The salon was not on any schedule. It was a gathering of people who had been rejected by the world of normal things — not criminals, not madmen, but something harder to categorize: the aesthetically compromised.

The topic that evening was simple: "What do you regret most in your life?"

Victor Deleon spoke first. He was forty-eight, a chemist who had attempted an experiment in his youth — not to transmute lead into gold, but to "see the soul of matter." The experiment failed. His facial nerves were permanently damaged. The left half of his face twitched constantly. "I regret," Victor said, "that I let my face heal. If it had stayed as it was, perhaps they would have called me a genius."

Eva Sanderson spoke next. She was twenty-nine, a poet who had developed synesthesia from overuse of an Eastern medicinal herb. She could see the color of sounds and taste the shape of smells. Physicians called it a disease. She called them blind. "I regret learning to write poetry," she said. "Before, I did not find the world so ugly. Now I see the ugliness everywhere and I cannot unsee it."

Alistair Grey spoke third. He was sixty-two, a bankrupt aristocrat who had built a secret palace in a cellar in Soho using furniture from garbage heaps and fragments from stolen museum pieces. "I regret inheriting my family's wealth. Without money, I would never have needed to sell my books. Books are the only things that remember us after we are gone."

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Isabella — called "White" Isabella — spoke fourth. She was thirty-eight, a former society beauty who had stopped speaking three years ago. Not because she could not, but because ordinary language felt too coarse for her thoughts. She danced instead. A slow, terrible dance. Julian later learned it was for her younger sister, who had died three years earlier.

Silas Frost spoke fifth. He was forty-five, a physician who conducted "psychological autopsies" in his clinic — cutting into consciousness rather than flesh. "I regret discovering that every normal person harbors a monster inside. Now I look at everyone and see caged animals."

Claire Devereaux spoke last. She was twenty-two, Alistair's daughter. She had a rare neurological condition: her emotions physically altered the temperature of the room around her. Anger made the air freeze. Sorrow made it heavy as lead. "I regret being born," she said. "Because if I had not been born, my temperature would never have hurt my mother. The last time she held me, her hands were frostbitten."

Julian wrote down every word. He hesitated at the end.

These people did not regret ordinary things. Victor did not regret the failure — he regretted the success. Eva did not regret the herb — she regretted the ability. Claire did not regret the illness — she regretted herself.

He wrote one final line: "We all regret becoming ourselves."

He sent the manuscript to his editor. Three days later: "Beautiful. But too dangerous. The readers will be afraid."

Julian smiled. Fear was the only honest emotion left.

He stepped out into the New York night. There were no stars — only the orange glow of gas lamps. He looked up and thought: If the stars could see the people on the ground, would they regret existing too?

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