After Arthur left, flying back to London for the spring air he preferred over Melbourne's autumn, Henry returned to the rhythm of his life—sets, lines, rehearsals, and the occasional quiet moment that felt increasingly rare.
"That's a wrap!!" Director Tim Van Patten bellowed through the megaphone, voice carrying across the set.
The crew erupted in cheers, clapping and hooting. "We're all gonna get drunk tonight… woohoo!" he added, and the room seemed to explode with energy.
Henry cheered with them, but a fraction of him remained detached, standing outside the noise. He sipped a bottle of water, letting the warm buzz of the celebration drift past him like smoke.
As the day turned to night, the hotel settled into a kind of chaotic quiet. Drunken footsteps echoed in the hallways, doors slammed, laughter drifted from rooms, and the scent of alcohol lingered like an invisible fog. Henry slipped out to the rooftop patio, needing air and some semblance of clarity.
Steven Spielberg was already there, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the stars. When Henry approached, Spielberg turned sharply and gestured for him to sit.
"Age really makes your tolerance weaker," Spielberg said dryly, a small chuckle breaking the formal tone. He glanced at Henry, then back at the sky. "So tell me about yourself, Henry."
Henry exhaled. 'Start with what? The castle? The watches? The running away? The past life? No, not that…' He sighed, letting the pause stretch. "Well… my childhood is… kind of cliché."
Spielberg tilted his head. "Start there."
Henry nodded, settling in. "I was born into a wealthy family, eldest son, supposed to inherit the family company. I was going to become a watchmaker—run away from home eventually—but…"
"You became an actor instead," Spielberg interrupted, filling in the last piece of the puzzle without judgment.
Henry shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Pretty dramatic, I guess. I heard from my siblings that Dad destroyed the house the morning I left."
A voice from the railing drew his attention. "How'd you discover it?"
Tom Hanks leaned casually, eyes warm but curious. "You mean… acting?"
"Me?" Henry asked, caught off guard.
"Yes," Tom said, nodding. "How'd you switch from watches to acting?"
Henry laughed quietly, thinking about the West End and his first awkward steps on stage. "I started watching plays and musicals in the West End after finishing college. Mostly to kill time. Then I auditioned for a small role. Something clicked—it just felt… right. Acting became my craft, my art. I wanted to inhabit the characters, not just perform them. It… stuck."
Spielberg raised an eyebrow. "Wait—you're eighteen?"
"Yes. Started college early." Henry let it hang, unsure whether to explain further. 'Do they think I'm precocious or just weirdly ahead of schedule?'
Hanks nodded slowly. "And that's how you got into film?"
"Initially theatre. Then acting school. The Pacific… that was the first big exposure." Henry shrugged. 'And somehow, through luck or fate or both, I ended up here talking to two of the people who shaped the industry.'
Spielberg leaned back slightly, considering him. "What about you guys?" Henry asked. He wanted to know the stories behind their composure, their confidence, and the subtle power in every gesture.
Tom Hanks spoke first, voice soft but deliberate. "Started in high school plays, then studied theatre in college. Small television roles, a few extras, then film—Splash, then Big, Philadelphia, Forrest Gump, Apollo 13. It's been… a long, unpredictable journey. I've been fortunate."
Spielberg interjected with a grin, pride in his tone. "My sister wrote the screenplay for Big. That's how I met him."
Henry let it sink in, observing the unspoken exchange between them: admiration, familiarity, and a history of trust and respect. 'This is how people who've truly made it carry themselves—no pretension, just quiet authority.'
"And you?" Henry asked Spielberg.
"Well… started making films at home as a teen, studied film at California State University in Long Beach. Got rejected a few times—grades weren't great. Made a short film, Amblin, which impressed a studio executive around '69. From there, youngest director with a long-term contract at a major studio."
Henry nodded, noting the casual way Spielberg mentioned accolades and milestones. There was no bragging, just statement. 'They speak like this because it's all already done. They don't need to perform it; the record speaks for itself.'
They lingered on stories—early mishaps, small victories, first rejections, surprising breakthroughs. Henry interjected sparingly, offering observations rather than commentary, letting the two legends reveal themselves. He noticed subtle patterns: the way Spielberg listened while Hanks spoke, the gestures Hanks used when describing emotional moments, and the pauses that carried more weight than words.
Henry thought about his own path, comparing it quietly in his mind. 'I ran from luxury. I ran from obligation. I ran from a life of clocks and watches and rules. And somehow… it landed me here, at eighteen, talking to men whose work has defined generations.'
He tried to analyze why it worked. Not just skill—there was timing, patience, an instinct for relationships, the subtle push and pull of attention. Hanks exuded warmth and trust, Spielberg carried that undercurrent of control, and Henry was absorbing both without trying to imitate. 'Observe, understand, don't copy. That's the lesson. Always watch before acting.'
Tom leaned back, eyes reflecting the city lights. "You know, it's not always the big breaks that define you. It's the way you respond to the tiny moments, the doors that almost close and the ones you open."
Henry nodded slowly. 'That's why I took the small roles, why I volunteered as an extra… because every small step accumulates. Every unnoticed choice is shaping me.'
Spielberg's gaze turned thoughtful, almost absent for a moment. "Directing teaches patience. You see the errors, the repetitions, the actors who miss it. But you also see when someone internalizes a character without knowing it themselves. That's… rare."
Henry tilted his head. 'So that's why Hanks is always so natural. Internalized. Not just learned, not just performed.' He wondered if he could reach that. 'Maybe someday.'
"Any advice for a young actor starting out?" Henry asked cautiously, not wanting to overstep.
Hanks smiled faintly. "Study, but not just books. Observe people. Life. People's contradictions. Sometimes the quietest person in the room is the most interesting character."
Spielberg nodded in agreement. "And never assume you know what's best for a scene. Listen. Adapt. A film isn't about ego; it's about clarity and intent. If you can see that, even small, you're ahead of most."
Henry exhaled, a little overwhelmed but mostly inspired. 'So much to process. So much to remember. And yet… it feels manageable if I take it one moment at a time.'
The city stretched out below, lights twinkling like scattered stars. Henry studied them for a moment, considering the patterns, the chaos, and the order. 'Life is like this city. Lights, noise, movement… all seemingly random. But step back, watch it long enough, and you see structure, rhythm, intent.'
Tom chuckled softly, sensing his thoughts. "You're thinking too much."
"Maybe," Henry admitted, shrugging. 'But thinking is all I've got sometimes. And it doesn't hurt to try to understand it all.'
Spielberg shifted slightly, hands clasped behind his back. "Do you ever get scared?" he asked suddenly, voice low.
Henry blinked. "Of… what?"
"Failure. Mediocrity. Losing yourself in the process."
Henry's gaze drifted to the horizon. 'Every day.'
"Yes," Henry said simply. "Every day. But I try to keep moving forward."
Hanks smiled, and for a moment, the three men were quiet. The city sounds below became distant, the stars above slightly sharper. Henry felt the rare sensation of being both small and significant simultaneously.
"Remember," Spielberg finally said, "it's not about impressing the audience every day. It's about impressing yourself with honesty."
Henry nodded.
They lingered under the stars, sharing silence and occasional murmurs. No need to fill every gap; the quiet itself was instructive. Henry exhaled, allowing the cool breeze to brush against him. 'Not every lesson comes from a script. Some come from moments like this.'
When he finally stood to leave, he realized the weight of their presence had subtly shifted him. Not grandly, not dramatically, but in the quiet, persistent way experience embeds itself.
"Thanks," he said simply, to both of them, voice low.
Spielberg nodded. "Keep noticing, Henry. That's what matters."
And for the first time that night, Henry felt a faint, grounding satisfaction. Not the kind that comes from applause or paychecks, but the quiet certainty that, for now, he was exactly where he needed to be.
As he descended the stairs back to his room, he thought about the trajectory of his life. The risk, the running away, the uncertainty, the tiny choices that had stacked like bricks into the life he had now. 'The Pacific, the audition, the people… all converging at the right time. I can't control it, only navigate it.'
And somewhere in that calculation, Henry realized he had found a strange kind of peace. Not complete, not permanent, but enough to know that each step, however chaotic, was purposeful.