When the Stars Went Silent

The night Naomi died, the stars refused to shine. At least, that’s how it felt to Elijah.

The hospital room had been quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of machines counting down the seconds of her life. He had held her hand, her fingers cold and fragile in his grasp. The doctors had whispered in hushed tones, but their words were meaningless—he already knew. He had known for weeks.

She had turned to him, eyes heavy with exhaustion but still holding that quiet spark of mischief. “Elijah,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “Tell me a story.”

He had tried. He had started one about a girl who could fly, a story he had told her a hundred times before. But the words caught in his throat. How could he speak of soaring when she was fading right before him?

So he had simply held her hand, pressing it to his lips, as if he could anchor her to the world just a little longer.

And then, with a sigh as soft as a whisper, she was gone.

---

They met in the middle of winter, when the world was wrapped in frost and silence. She had been sitting alone in the library, her nose buried in a tattered old book, the kind with yellowed pages and a spine held together by tape.

“You’re reading it wrong,” Elijah had said, watching her squint at the words.

She had looked up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

He pointed at the book. “It’s upside down.”

She blinked, then burst into laughter—sharp, unexpected. “Guess that explains why it wasn’t making sense.”

That was Naomi. Always laughing at herself, always seeing the humor in the small things. Even when the doctors said the illness was eating away at her, she had smiled. “Guess my body didn’t get the memo that I have plans,” she had joked. “Lots of plans.”

But the universe had been unkind. Plans meant nothing to time, and time had never been on their side.

---

After the funeral, Elijah found himself back in her room. It smelled like her—lavender and old paper, a scent that made his chest tighten. He sat on the bed, running his fingers over the books stacked on her nightstand. The top one was the same tattered novel she had been reading the day they met.

A note peeked out from between the pages. His heart stuttered as he unfolded it, her handwriting unmistakable.

"If you’re reading this, it means time won again. I’m sorry. But promise me something—keep telling stories. For me."

He clutched the note to his chest. The world felt unbearably empty, but her words were still here. She was still here.

That night, for the first time since she left, he sat beneath the sky and spoke softly to the stars.

And maybe, just maybe, they listened.