Annabelle clutched her lantern, warding off the windy winter cold. Snow fell like little gifts from the cosmos. And high above, the stars twinkled as if to greet the girl as she trudged through the thickening white. Ahead of her stood a brick-walled building, lined with bronze steel along its edges, a tiled roof, and several large windows—an observatory!
She wobbled up the stone steps, then knocked on its heavy wooden door. Above it, an iron plate was nailed to the brick and inscribed with an 8-pointed star, followed by the phrase: “Ad astra, amici nostri antiquissimi.” To the stars, our oldest friends. The door creaked open, and a burly man appeared.
“Annabelle! What are you doing out here, my child? Come in!”
Her father hurried her inside, then covered her with a fur blanket and left for a moment. While waiting, Annabelle scanned the observatory—a wonderland of celestial study! Brass telescopes were set by the windows pointed toward the sky, intricately illustrated charts of star systems pinned on the walls and meticulously handwritten notes and almanacs scattered across several desks. A host of other paraphernalia lay out in the open—sextants, compasses, armillaries, and astrolabes!
Her father returned, a mug of hot chocolate in hand, and handed it to her. He cupped her cheek in his hand and spoke, “You’re warmer now, my little Annabelle. What drew you out into the cold so late? Has your mother already fallen asleep?”
“I could not sleep, Father,” she replied, not looking at her father; instead, her gaze was fixed on the star charts.
Her father rubbed his stubby-haired chin. “Well, is there anything you need? More hot chocolate? Perhaps a bedtime story?”
She pondered for a moment, eyes still fixed on the charts. “Can I please ask the stars?”
Annabelle’s father sighed. “You know you cannot do that yet, my dear. Our old friends can be a little too…wise for you. There is knowledge in this world you are far better not knowing—for now, at least.”
Her head stooped. “Okay…” she said glumly, her thumb rubbing the mug’s handle.
Her father looked at the poor child before him. Little Annabelle always knew how to tug at his heartstrings. “Alright,” he said softly. “You may ask the stars. However, I’ll be right beside you.”
Annabelle beamed, and for a moment, her father saw a brilliance that could rival even their oldest friends.
They pushed open a giant set of heavy windows, revealing the full expanse of the heavens. Above, the night stretched endlessly like a deep velvet blanket, dyed in varying shades of blue and pinpricked with millions of tiny lights. She hunched over the windowsill, mesmerized by the shimmering tapestry that hung over her.
“Well then—ask, my dear,” her father said.
Annabelle gazed at the still sky, almost as if it were waiting patiently for her to speak. Finally, she murmured, “Do…do you know who I am?”
Briefly, their oldest friends remained still. Then, one star’s tips began to bend, stretching toward its neighbor. Another followed, and another. The stars seemed to shift and reshape themselves, refracting and layering their radiance until depth emerged, linked by hundreds of luminescent threads. Slowly, lines took shape. Then forms. Then—
“Father!” she pointed at the image in the sky. “Look!”
It was a butterfly. Annabelle always searched for them in the spring. She giggled, hopping in place—the stars knew her! Her father stood to the side, a soft smile on his face as he watched her.
She turned to the night and asked again, “Will…will it still be snowing tomorrow?” The butterfly dissipated gradually, and a new one took shape. “A snowflake!” Annabelle cheered, pointing at the shimmering figure. Questions followed, one after another, her excitement growing with every new image. Her father remained near her, watching the stars as they continued to shift for the girl.
Then, she asked, “Where will I… be in the future?” The question stirred a quiet tension in her father. He said nothing and instead steadied his gaze at the sky.
The stars were still, as if they were pondering. Then they began to take shape once again. Their movements seemed crude, and their incandescence nearly blinding. Annabelle’s father felt a knot in his stomach as he watched the new figure steadily form. Its edges were sharp and distorted. An uneasy silence settled between them, but before the image could fully form, her father had already reached for the windows, shutting them tight.
“That’s enough, my dear,” he said. “Let’s get you to bed now.”
Annabelle’s father carried her back home and into their bedroom, her mother still sound asleep. He tucked her into bed and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Good night,” he whispered, then shuffled toward the door.
But before he left, she asked, “Father, what did the stars show me?”
He paused. “Some knowledge is better left unknown, my dear.” He said softly, a tinge of tenderness and caution in his tone. “Goodnight, my little Annabelle.”
With that, he quietly slipped out of the room, intending to return to the observatory to continue studying. As he stepped outside, he glanced at the night—now calm and still, the stars having returned to normalcy.
Only silence was with him now, alongside the solemn company of the cosmos.
