The Star Reader

More about The Star Reader

On nights when even the moon pauses and the world seems to listen, tales are told of a man who understood the language of the stars. They called him the Star Reader, the keeper of heavenly whispers. No one knew where he came from—some said he had fallen from a faded dream, others that he was the memory of a comet. He lived alone on the tallest tower in the ancient city, above a sea of roofs and fog. From there, he gazed into a realm no man could ever enter—the realm between the lights. The tower was old, so old that even the stones were silent. Moss grew between the cracks in the platform, candles dripped their time into the darkness, and in the midst of it all stood a telescope made of brass and glass, as large as a fountain and entwined with countless symbols. Every cog, every lens was engraved—words no one could read anymore, not even the Star Reader himself. And yet he understood them. Every night, as the city beneath him sank into dreams, he lit the candles, opened his book of shimmering parchment, and pointed the reed toward the sky. In its glow, dust particles danced like small galaxies. With a steady hand, he wielded his pen, from which drops of silvery mist fell, and wrote what no ear could hear, no eye could see: the voices of the stars, trapped in lines of light. But every time he wrote a new line, a star somewhere in the sky would go out. At first, it was barely noticeable, then it became a faint tremor in the heart of the firmament. Entire constellations began to flicker, until they faded like memories. The people below noticed. They whispered that the Star Reader was stealing the light. They called him a thief of the sky, a wizard of the void. But the man remained silent. He knew he was taking nothing—he was only preserving what would otherwise have been lost. For he had once heard that the universe would not sing forever. Every star was a note in a great song, and eventually, even the last one would fall silent. His task was to save the melody before silence swallowed it. So he continued writing, night after night. His beard grew longer, his gaze deeper. He barely ate, never spoke, living only in the rhythm of the sky. Then, one evening, as even the Milky Way began to fade, he saw something he had never seen before: himself—tiny and transparent—reflected in the lens. Behind him, in the glass, a vast wheel of light turned, slowly, majestically, without beginning or end. It was time itself, and it spoke to him. It didn't say a word, but he understood: it wasn't he who had read the stars—they had read him. He was the sentence they were writing. With a trembling hand, he took his quill and wrote the last entry in his book: "When no eye sees, the light will remember." Then he closed the book, laid down his quill, and blew out the candles. In the silence that followed, the last constellation faded. But as darkness fell completely, a single, bright glow began above the tower—so clear that even the shadows receded.