The black star

> “Every morning begins with the same light — pale, tired, as if the sky forgot how to burn.”

---

My name is Aen Solaris, and Nareth has been quiet for forty-three cycles.

Quiet enough that even the wind seems to forget its own direction.

The air here tastes faintly of iron and dust, dry enough to sting the tongue. When the storms rise, they sound like a thousand voices humming beneath the soil — but they never bring rain. Only fine ash, glittering under a dim sky that never truly brightens.

Our sun — or what’s left of it — hangs low, more silver than gold. The light doesn’t warm anymore. It just exists, like a ghost reminding me of what warmth used to feel like.

Sometimes, when I stand by the edge of the eastern cliffs, I can see faint ripples moving across the horizon, as if the world itself is breathing slowly in its sleep.

No one lives here anymore, except me.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

---

I live in a shelter built from the bones of an old mining pod — metal walls patched with solar panels that no longer charge. The temperature inside never rises above ten degrees. Nights are colder, but the cold doesn’t bother me anymore.

Maybe I’ve stopped expecting warmth.

Food is synthetic, stored in sealed cartridges that I trade from the old supply vaults scattered through the valley. Water filters from underground veins — still clean, still faintly glowing. Sometimes I wonder if it’s the minerals that shimmer, or something else entirely.

The plants here don’t grow toward the light.

They grow sideways, as if the sky is lying to them. Their leaves shimmer faintly, silver-green, reflecting light that feels slightly wrong. When I touch them, they hum — softly, like they remember a song they can’t quite finish.

---

Days are long on Nareth.

Too long.

I measure time by the pulse of the horizon — every twelve hours or so, the sky bends. Light fades for a few moments, then returns, almost identical but not quite. Like the world resets itself slightly each time.

Maybe that’s what eternity feels like — nothing ending, nothing beginning, everything repeating.

Sometimes I record my voice logs.

> “Cycle 1249. The soil is colder today. The wind came from the north again. No signs of life.”

Then I play them back, and the static sounds like whispers.

---

I’ve stopped searching for others.

After the collapse, everyone left.

Those who tried to stay vanished into the mist fields beyond the ridge. I’ve thought about going there, but something about the light there feels wrong — it bends, like the air’s being pulled.

Still, sometimes at night, I see flashes on the upper sky. Tiny streaks of silver, vanishing before I can track them. Maybe satellites, maybe ghosts of satellites.

I’ve learned not to ask questions I can’t answer.

Out here, questions echo too loudly.

---

This morning, though, the light was different.

Sharper. Colder.

The sky shimmered — like glass touched by sound. I felt a vibration under my feet. Not like a quake. More like a heartbeat.

Then, the wind stopped. Entirely.

Even the metallic trees stood still.

And out of that silence, a streak of light tore through the clouds — bright, cutting, unnatural.

A trail of white fire.

A ship.

Not a falling one.

A descending one.

Its light split the horizon, and for the first time in forty-three cycles, the sky above Nareth was no longer empty.