Among the stars

He was in charge of changing the lightbulbs of the stars that went dark after a while—if you will. He worked in something like the back of a bowling alley, except it was the universe he was responsible for.

He was blind as a punishment, or so the gods believed. In a past life he had been an astronomer, before he dared to challenge them. Eternally condemned not only to maintain the things he loved most, but never again to see their beauty.

A long beard fell from his face past his neck, white strands running through it at random. His hair was long, his robes gray, and he carried a walking stick. Even after thousands of years, he remained kind.

He could hear every star—every last one of them—with its own music and rhythm. Overwhelming at first, no doubt, but with time the sounds became familiar.

He could hear when a star was about to go out. Immediately, he would begin creating the next one, shaping its sound as closely as possible to the one that was fading. When the old star finally went dark, he would take his time walking over, gently lifting it, and placing the new one nearby—not in exactly the same place, but close.

Back at his shop, he would dismantle the old star and listen for what had broken. Sometimes nothing had. Still, he listened carefully to every piece as he took it apart, searching for anything that might be reused in the next.

You see, for him, it was never a punishment.

If he had known this would be his fate, he would have dared the gods much earlier. To be among the stars, to take part in their beauty—not merely watch it from afar.