Pinocchio and the Silence of the Stars

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Night had fallen over the forest, and Pinocchio walked alone along the narrow path that disappeared among the shadows of the trees. His wooden feet tapped softly on the stone, each step an echo in the silent darkness. Above him, the stars twinkled—like small, distant eyes that seemed to be watching him. He no longer knew where he was going. Perhaps he had forgotten. Perhaps he had always been on the move, ever since that first day Geppetto had breathed life into him. He was looking for something—or someone. But on this night, even the moon had disappeared behind clouds, and the world around him felt like a blank page. The trees bent over the path as if whispering a secret to him. Small mushrooms glowed between their roots, soft as the light of a dream. Pinocchio stopped, looked around, and for a moment he thought he heard faint voices, barely more than a whisper in the wind. "Why do you keep going?" one of those voices asked, so faint that he didn't know if it was coming from the forest or from within himself. "Because I want to become," Pinocchio answered, his wooden mouth forming the words slowly, as if he had yet to learn them. "I want to be... real." The silence didn't answer. He continued walking, deeper into the forest, until he came to a clearing where a single tree stood—old, gnarled, its branches like arms reaching up to the sky. In the center of its crown hung a light so bright that Pinocchio had to squint. "Are you the fairy?" he asked. But it wasn't a fairy. It was a star, caught in the branches. It shone dimly, as if tired from shining for so long. "I have fallen," whispered the star. Pinocchio approached. "Shall I take you back?" The star smiled sadly. "You cannot lift me. I am made of light. But you... you could carry me, in your heart." Pinocchio placed his hand on his chest, where he had always wished for a heart. "But there is only wood." "Sometimes that is enough," said the star. And so Pinocchio sat at the foot of the tree, gently lifted the small point of light in his hands, and placed it on his chest. For a moment, his body glowed—as if the light had found a way to shine through the wood. The night grew brighter. The stars in the sky looked down as if they had found their lost brother. And Pinocchio sat there, with the light within him, feeling something he had never known: Not joy. Not sadness. Something in between. Perhaps this was what it meant to be a real boy. He didn't know. But that night, it was enough to sit, breathe—and shine.