Elara realized then that the stories were wrong. Stars weren't delicate prizes to be won or gifts to be given to shallow lovers. They were travelers, busy and slightly irritable, with maps etched into their skin. "I have peppermint," Elara said, offering her hand.
The woman looked up, unimpressed. "I’m a cartographer. And I’m late. I tripped over a nebula and slid down a gravity well. Do you have any tea? Falling is thirsty work."
One Tuesday, a streak of violet tore through the clouds. It didn’t vanish like a common meteor; it hummed. It landed with a soft thud in the Whispering Woods, a place the villagers avoided because the trees there had a habit of rearranging themselves. Elara didn’t pack a bag. she simply climbed down and ran.