The woman beside her broke the silence gently. "So, what do you think?"
Alina wiped her cheek quickly, embarrassed at being caught with tears. She folded the little girl's letter again, placing it carefully back where she had found it, as though it were sacred.
Her voice came soft at first, hesitant. "It's… overwhelming. All of this."
The woman smiled. "That's good to hear. But tell me honestly, do you think it needs something more? A finishing touch?"
Alina hesitated, biting her lip. She wasn't used to being asked her opinion on something this grand, especially when it was about him. But her heart tugged with a sudden thought.
"Actually…" She looked around at the walls of letters, the Heart Box, the glowing devotion pressed into every page. "I think we should give something back. A small gift for every fan who comes here."
The woman tilted her head. "A gift?"
"Yes," Alina said more firmly now, her eyes shining. "Even something simple. Like a little signature card, so they can carry his name home with them. Or… flowers, maybe? A small perfume? Something warm. Something that feels like him."
She paused, pressing her fingers together nervously. The woman studied her for a long moment, then her lips curved into a smile of genuine admiration. "That… is a beautiful idea. I'll bring it up with the team."
Alina exhaled slowly, her chest tightening with something she couldn't quite name. She wasn't sure why she cared so much, why her mind had raced to find a way for strangers, his fans, to feel even more connected. Maybe it was because standing here, surrounded by their words, she realized just how precious their bond with him was.
And for the first time, she wasn't jealous of it. She wanted to honor it. The woman pulled a small notepad from her blazer pocket, quickly scribbling down Alina's words about signature cards and flowers. She nodded thoughtfully, as if the suggestion had already taken root in her mind.
Alina tilted her head, curiosity rising. "Can I ask you something?"
The woman looked up from her notes. "Of course."
"Why me?" Alina asked softly. "Why did you choose me to give a review? There are so many people working here. Fans, even staff. Why me?"
The woman's expression gentled. "Because… I saw you with Mr. Bennett once. I assumed you were his friend. Because he doesn't talk much with anyone else except his friends.
Alina blinked. "Mr. Bennett?"
"Yes," the woman continued, adjusting her glasses. "I thought, if you're close to him, then surely you'd understand what kind of surprise Mr. Arden might appreciate."
Alina hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I am his friend." The words came out a little uncertain, but she didn't take them back.
She opened her mouth to ask another question, something pressing, hovering on the edge of her tongue, but just then the woman's phone buzzed sharply in her pocket.
"Excuse me," she murmured, stepping out quickly to take the call.
And just like that, Alina was alone again. Her gaze drifted back to the shelves, the tables stacked high with books, the walls lined with articles. The silence pressed close, filled only by the soft rustle of paper whenever she shifted.
Drawn by some unspoken pull, she reached for a magazine resting on the corner of the table. Its glossy cover bore Kai's face, sharp eyes, quiet intensity, the kind of look that seemed to stare through her. She flipped it open.
"Kai Arden: The Reluctant Star. Despite his fame, the actor remains famously private, choosing silence over the spotlight when not on screen…"
Alina turned another page, her eyes catching headlines after headlines.
"Airport Look King: The Star Who Never Tries, Yet Defines Fashion."
"Kai Arden's House Caught in Flames—Actor Narrowly Escapes."
"Impostors Found in the Star's mansion."
The words swam before her eyes. She reached for another stack of newspapers, older ones this time, yellowed with time but still crisp. Alina sank slowly onto the nearby bench, the papers trembling in her hands.
Every page she turned tore apart the walls she had built around her heart. This wasn't just a man who stood on screens, pretending. This was a man who moved quietly in the real world, too, leaving behind ripples she had never bothered to notice.
Her lips parted as a thought struck her, almost like the whisper of the universe itself: I never knew him at all.
She took another magazine. It was him, draped in an immaculate long coat, the fabric falling like water along his frame, every stitch molded to his form. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, his eyes piercing even through the paper. In another, he was photographed against a backdrop of city lights, a luxury watch gleaming on his wrist.
Jewelry campaigns, designer brands, perfume bottles with his name in the background, he was the face of them all. Her fingers hovered over the magazine, hesitant, but her mind had already gone elsewhere.
A memory flickered. That first time she'd seen him in person. The long coat made him look untouchable. The way he carried himself was not like someone showing off, but like the coat had chosen him instead of the other way around. She remembered how the fabric shifted when he walked, the way it made him look taller, colder, almost like a man carved out of marble.
She shook her head hard, muttering, "Nope. Stop. Not thinking about him like that." She shoved the thought away as though it had burned her fingertips. Yet, no matter how many times she tried to push it, the memory kept returning like an echo.
Another magazine, another advertisement. More brand launches. A jewelry photoshoot where he stood in a black suit, a simple silver chain against his throat. Her eyes lingered for a second too long before she caught herself.
"Of course…" she whispered, biting the inside of her cheek. "He's… model material."
The deeper she dug, the more the picture sharpened. The world saw him as a godlike figure, flawless, larger than life. His fans adored him. Brands lined up for him. His face was plastered across billboards.
Something was going on inside her, something she couldn't name yet. But one thing was certain. Kai Arden wouldn't just remain a mystery to her. Not for long.
Each room seemed to lead into another like stepping through the pages of someone's life. One story unfolding into the next. The doorways were softly lit, each transition seamless, making it feel less like an exhibition and more like a quiet journey through memories.
When the lady finished her call, she slipped her phone back into her bag and rejoined Alina, who smiled warmly.
"Let's move to the next room," the lady said, opening the door with a small flourish.
The air inside smelled faintly of paint and old paper. Alina's steps slowed the moment she entered. The walls were lined with canvases, some huge, some no bigger than her palm. Portraits, watercolor paintings, pencil sketches, charcoal outlines, digital illustrations, oil paintings that gleamed under the soft lights, every possible medium was there. Some were perfect, others raw and emotional, but all shared one subject: Kai Arden.
He was captured in every expression imaginable, laughing, crying, lost in thought, standing beneath rain, and sitting beneath stars. The room felt alive with devotion, each brushstroke carrying a story.
"He was indeed… a piece of art," Alina murmured under her breath.
The lady smiled. "All these are fan gifts. Every single one of them. We collected and preserved them for this room."
They moved on to the next. This time, the mood shifted softer, warmer. The walls were lined with photographs, event posters, and documents of charity auctions, foundation work, and donations. Pictures of Kai visiting orphanages, schools, and hospitals. His smile, genuine, unguarded, stood out even in the simplest photographs.
Alina paused in front of one picture of Kai kneeling beside a little boy, handing him a backpack. Her lips curved faintly.
"He had given so much," she thought. "And yet, he never spoke of it. Not once."
The lady's voice broke through her thoughts. "Mr. Arden has always believed in giving back. Most of his personal auction items were donated to orphanages. He funds their education quietly, no publicity, no credit."
Alina turned to her, impressed. "That's… incredible."
They walked a bit further, and the lady handed her a small notepad. "Do you have any more suggestions? We're still fine-tuning a few ideas before we open it to the public."
Alina thought for a moment, her gaze drifting over the photographs again. "When we open the exhibition for fans," she began slowly, "we should include a small lucky draw, a lottery for visitors. Something meaningful… connected to him."
The lady tilted her head. "Like what?"
"A T-shirt, maybe?" Alina suggested, eyes thoughtful.
The lady chuckled softly. "Mr. Arden doesn't really wear T-shirts. I never saw him wearing one."
"Then…" Alina smiled, a playful glint in her eyes, "How about one of his shirts? A used one. Something personal. It would let fans carry a bit of his presence with them, the warmth, the scent… something they could keep close."
The lady blinked, visibly impressed, and quickly scribbled it down in her notepad. "That's a beautiful idea. I'll definitely note that."
As they reached the doorway to the next room, she paused and turned toward Alina. "By the way, I never asked what your name is?"
"Alina Carter," she said, offering a polite smile.
"That's a lovely name." The lady's eyes softened. "Can you share your number? Just in case I need to ask something about your ideas later. I'd love to stay in touch."
"Sure," Alina replied, handing her the number without hesitation.
The lady noted it carefully, thanking her again. Alina gave one last look around the paintings, the charity displays, the faint echo of admiration that filled the room, and couldn't help but think…
This wasn't just an exhibition. It was the heartbeat of the man she thought she knew, and yet, clearly didn't at all.