Hello dear ones,
My name is Dayana and today I have for you a beautiful story titled The Star Mender.
Get comfortable,
Lay down,
Close your eyes and allow my voice to take you into this journey On clear nights,
If you knew where to look,
You could see iris climbing the sky.
Most people didn't notice.
They saw shooting stars,
Meteor showers,
The occasional flicker of a satellite crossing the darkness.
But if you watched carefully,
If you were patient and quiet and let your eyes adjust to the deep velvet black,
You would see her.
A small figure with a tool belt and a ladder that stretched up and up and up until it disappeared into the infinite.
Iris had been mending stars for as long as she could remember.
She'd inherited the job from her grandmother,
Who'd inherited it from her grandmother,
Back through a line of women who'd looked up at the night sky and thought,
Someone should take care of that.
The work was simple,
Really.
Stars burned out sometimes,
Grew dim,
Lost their way.
They needed tending the same way gardens needed weeding or old houses needed their windows washed.
Tonight she was working on a star in Cassiopeia,
One that had been flickering for a week.
She climbed her ladder with practiced ease,
Her tool belt jingling softly,
Pliers,
Wire,
A small bottle of starlight distilled from the Pleiades,
And her grandmother's silver polishing cloth,
Worn soft with use.
When she reached this star,
She found it tired.
That was the best way to describe it.
Its light had gone thin and reedy,
Like a voice that had been talking too long.
Hello,
Dear,
Iris said softly,
The way she always greeted them.
Let's see what's wrong.
She got to work,
Polishing away the cosmic dust that had accumulated,
Tightening the connections where its light pulsed through,
Adding just a drop of the Pleiades light to brighten its core.
The star hummed under her touch,
A sound like distant music,
Like something almost remembered.
There you go,
She murmured,
Good as new.
The star flared bright,
Sending out a pulse of gratitude that rippled through space like a stone dropped in still water.
Iris smiled,
Packed her tools,
And was about to descend when she noticed something unusual.
Someone was watching her.
Not from Earth.
She was used to the occasional astronomer or dreamy child catching a glimpse.
This was different.
Someone was sitting on a nearby asteroid,
Legs dangling over the edge,
Openly staring.
Iris climbed across the space between stars.
It was easier than it looked once you stopped thinking about distance the way Earth people did,
And landed beside the watcher.
It was a young man,
Maybe twenty-five,
With dark skin and darker eyes,
In an expression of complete bewilderment.
He wore flannel pajamas and was barefoot.
Around him,
The stars reflected in his eyes like he was carrying his own private galaxy.
You're dead,
Iris said.
It wasn't an accusation,
Just an observation.
I.
.
.
What?
The young man looked down at himself,
At the asteroid,
At the infinite sprawl of space around him.
I was just.
.
.
I was in my bed.
I had a headache,
And I took some medicine and I lay down and.
.
.
And your heart stopped.
Iris finished,
Gently.
Aneurysm,
Probably.
It happens sometimes.
I'm sorry.
The young man.
.
.
Boy,
Really,
Iris thought.
He looked so young and frightened.
Put his head in his hands.
No,
No,
No,
No,
No.
I can't be dead.
I have a dissertation to defend.
My sister's getting married in June.
I was supposed to.
.
.
He trailed off,
His voice breaking.
Iris sat beside him,
Letting her legs swing over the edge of the asteroid too.
Below them,
Or above,
Or beside,
Direction didn't mean much out there.
Earth turned slowly,
A blue marble wrapped in wisps of white.
What's your name?
She asked.
James.
He looked at her,
Tears floating away from his face in little crystalline spheres.
Who are you?
Where are we?
What happens now?
I'm Iris.
I meant stars.
We are in between.
She gestured at the vast darkness,
The points of light,
The swirling nebulae in the distance.
And what happens now,
That's different for everyone.
Most people move on pretty quickly.
There's usually somewhere they need to be,
Something calling them forward.
But sometimes people get stuck.
Usually because they weren't ready,
Weren't finished.
James looked at his hands,
At the stars shining through them like it was made of glass and light.
I wasn't finished.
No,
Iris agreed,
I can see that.
They sat in silence for a while.
Around them,
The universe hummed its ancient song.
Stars being born,
Stars dying,
Light traveling across distances so vast that the numbers stopped meaning anything.
Can I ask you something?
James said finally.
Why do you meant stars?
Do they ask you to?
Iris considered the question.
Not in words,
But they need it and I can help,
So I do.
My grandmother used to say that everything in the universe is connected.
Every star,
Every planet,
Every person.
When something needs care and you can provide it,
That's not just a choice.
That's a kind of responsibility.
A gift,
Even.
She pulled out her polishing cloth and absently cleaned a small asteroid nearby,
Making it gleam.
After she died,
I found I could still do the work.
I wasn't ready to let go of her,
And the stars still needed tending,
So I stayed.
I've been here ever since.
How long?
James asked.
Time's different out here.
A while.
James looked back at Earth,
And Iris could see the longing in his face.
For his sister,
For his unfinished work,
For all the mornings he wouldn't see.
I don't know how to let go.
Most people don't,
Iris said,
But you know what I've learned,
Mending stars?
Sometimes things burn bright and fast.
Sometimes they burn long and steady.
Both kinds are beautiful.
Both kinds matter.
She stood up,
Brushed stardust from her pants.
Come on,
There's something I want to show you.
She led him across the night,
Hopping from constellation to constellation like stepping stones.
They passed through the Hyades,
Skirted the edge of the Orion's Bell,
Climbed up through Perseus until they reached a cluster of small stars,
Barely visible from Earth.
These are new,
Iris explained.
Only a few million years old.
Babies,
Really.
Watch.
As they watched,
One of the baby stars pulsed,
Sending out its first real flare of light.
It was tentative,
Uncertain,
But undeniably there.
See that?
Iris pointed.
That light just started the journey.
It'll travel for hundreds of years before it reaches Earth.
Maybe someone will be lying in a field one night,
A hundred years from now,
And they'll see that light for the first time.
Maybe it'll make them feel less alone.
Maybe they'll make a wish on it.
She turned to James.
You lived for twenty-five years.
That's not long,
Not compared to stars.
But the light you made,
The people you loved,
The work you did,
The small kindnesses you probably don't even remember.
That light,
It's still traveling.
Your sister will carry you with her on her wedding day.
Your research will be part of someone else's foundation.
Every person you made smile.
Everyone you helped.
Every moment of connection.
Those ripples keep going.
James was crying again,
But differently now.
I wanted to do more.
Everyone does,
Iris said softly.
But maybe the point isn't how much you do.
Maybe it's that you shine at all.
Maybe it's that you shine at all.
They sat together as the universe wheeled around them.
Slowly,
James began to glow brighter,
His edges becoming less defined,
More like light than matter.
I think I'm ready now,
He said,
Sounding surprised.
I know.
Iris squeezed his hand,
Or where his hand had been.
He was mostly light now,
Mostly gone.
Thank you for sitting with me for a while.
Will you be okay?
James asked.
Out here,
Alone?
Iris laughed,
A sound like wind chimes,
Like her grandmother's laugh.
I'm not alone.
I have the stars.
Then James was gone,
Dispersed into light,
Traveling onward to wherever people go when they finally let go.
Iris sat for a moment longer on the asteroid,
Looking at the spot where he'd been.
Then she stood,
Picked up the ladder,
And went back to work.
There was a star in Andromeda that needed tending,
Another one in Cygnus,
Growing dim.
The night was long and full of light that needed care,
And Iris had always been good at caring for things.
She climbed through the darkness,
Humming an old song her grandmother had taught her,
And the stars hummed back.
And somewhere far below,
On a small blue planet,
Someone was lying in a field looking up at the sky.
They saw a shooting star,
What they thought was a shooting star,
And made a wish.
Iris smiled.
She couldn't hear the wish,
But she could feel it.
A small pulse of hope traveling up through the darkness to meet her.
That was the thing about stars,
About light,
About the space between.
Nothing was ever really lost.
It just changed form,
Traveled further,
Became part of something larger.
The universe was full of people's light,
Still traveling,
Still shining,
Still finding its way home.
Iris climbed higher,
Her ladder stretching into forever,
And above and below and all around,
The stars burned on,
Tended,
And loved,
Each one a reminder that even in the deepest darkness,
There was always light.
You just had to know where to look.
