An old man, wrapped in a lint-covered wool coat, sat on a dewy bench beside a young girl with sparkling eyes whose feet couldn\u2019t quite reach the ground. One of them was a stranger, and one was not.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They were alone at the edge of a cornfield. The dark rows stretched endlessly into the evening landscape. An owl hooted somewhere in the tree line behind them, but they paid no notice: their attention was fixed on the slate sky. Without looking away, the man patted the jacket\u2019s wrinkled pockets, in search of his glasses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey\u2019re beautiful,\u201d said the girl with sparkling eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man began to feel a growing excitement as he wiped his glasses and peered into the sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, yes they are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He leaned forward and dipped his gloved hand into the galaxy and stirred the stars with his index. The man murmured feverishly, and his arm motions became exaggerated and sporadic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis one\u2019s Leo, and that\u2019s the Big Dipper\u2014but you knew that already. Oh, here\u2019s Orion\u2019s Belt.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As he continued speaking, his eyes began to shimmer and carry a light of their own. The girl watched in wonder, but she was no longer looking at the sky. Each lightyear-long connection the man made between the unceasing lights and their names fueled the now blazing inferno behind the thin, wire glasses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eventually, the man discovered a constellation with a name he couldn\u2019t place. He slowly retrieved his arm from the sky, sunk back into the bench, and let his eyes take on the soft, damp blackness of the night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAren\u2019t they beautiful?\u201d was his breathed denouement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, Papa. They\u2019re beautiful.\u201d The girl gently unfolded the man\u2019s trembling hand and fit her small fingers between his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man turned from the glittering canvas for the first time, and he saw two new stars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, I\u2019m sorry. What is your name, miss?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCassie, for Cassiopeia\u2014your favourite.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Photo by Enric Cruz L\u00f3pez (Pexels)<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

An old man, wrapped in a lint-covered wool coat, sat on a dewy bench beside a young girl with sparkling eyes whose feet couldn\u2019t quite reach the ground. One of them was a stranger, and one was not. They were alone at the edge of a cornfield. The dark rows stretched endlessly into the evening […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":656,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","WB4WB4WP_MODE":"","WB4WP_PAGE_SCRIPTS":"","WB4WP_PAGE_STYLES":"","WB4WP_PAGE_FONTS":"","WB4WP_PAGE_HEADER":"","WB4WP_PAGE_FOOTER":"","_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[15],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-655","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"yoast_head":"\n