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Literature Text
During the years of his inhabitance in the fishing village, the old man often ventured to the beach for a glimpse of the meteor showers. Every few weeks, the fabled stars would appear, cutting across the heavens to meet the dark horizon as if they were diving into the ocean, glittering gold rippling across the water's surface.
On one cool April evening, at the onset of the shooting stars, the old man found a little girl by the sea.
She was lying unconscious on the shore beneath the vibrant streaks of light in the sky, pale hair fanned out around her face, pearly skin draped upon small bones, coated in sand and a shimmering dust. After overcoming his initial shock, he picked her up and carried her back to his little house in the village, leaving an iridescent trail behind them.
The strange girl reminded the man of his late daughter. She was ten years old when her mother and she had been returning from their travels onboard a ship. There was a freak storm, and all of the voyagers disappeared beneath the water’s angry waves; they never recovered the bodies.
So it was with melancholic reminiscence that he tucked the girl into bed, her skin deathly cold against his wrinkled arms, and prepared a hot broth on his wood stove.
Hours later, she woke, still shivering beneath the downy quilts. The old man rushed to her side, a bowl of soup in hand. Limpid blue eyes widened in confusion, but she took the bowl that he had offered and quickly downed its contents.
“What is your name?” he prompted her gently afterwards. She stared at him with a blank expression.
“Well,” the old man sighed, smiling sadly, “you must be tired," and he blew out the lamp.
The little girl lay down uncertainly, pulling the covers to her chin. “Astraea,” she finally murmured beneath the moonlight. “My name.”
He turned in surprise, but she had already closed her eyes.
It was only afterwards that the old man noticed the sparkling dust that covered the floor, the walls, and his weary limbs.
That week, Astraea lived in the little house, refusing to go outside in the evenings when the falling stars were visible.
She spoke very little. “I don’t remember how I ended up on the beach,” she whispered when he asked, her voice trembling. “I don’t remember who I am.”
To cheer her up, the old man retrieved a set of coloured pencils and paper gathering dust in one of the cardboard boxes that he had not unpacked, and presented them to her. Astraea’s eyes lit up; she was delighted, and began to draw with an enthusiasm that only a child could muster.
“Look what I drew, Daddy!”
The days and nights passed effortlessly as the old man stayed by Astraea’s side, golden sunrises bleeding into starlit nights. In many undeniable ways, she was like his late daughter. They both brushed their long, fair hair out of their eyes using their pinky fingers, and ate delicately; they both possessed a passion for art; and they both adored his stories.
“Tell me about your family,” she said softly once when she was too tired to colour, curled up on the sofa. For the first time, the old man hesitated to comply with the girl’s wishes, not wanting to unearth the sorrows of his past. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, and began:
“I had a daughter, and she looked almost like you. When she was ten years old, a terrible accident happened...”
As he continued with his tale, Astraea remained silent. For a second there was a flicker of recognition in those distant eyes, but then, with a tilt of her head, she hid her face behind a curtain of hair. The quiver of her shoulders was the only sign that she was weeping.
In the middle of that very night, hours after he had put Astraea to sleep, the old man woke up with a premonition of disaster. With deliberate footsteps, he walked towards her room and opened the door.
The bed was made perfectly, the pillow flat against the sheets. The girl was nowhere to be found.
Panic bloomed inside his chest, and he was running, ignoring the pain in his legs as he hurried to the seashore. The stars were falling furiously, the flashes of opalescent light—green, pink, white—pouring from the sky like the last torrents of a celestial rain. Up and down the beach he raced, calling her name. As though some deity was playing a cruel trick on him, the similarity between this and the night his daughter had been swallowed up by the depths of the ocean became too much to bear. They had never recovered her body. Loss once again had him on his knees, brokenhearted and shaken to the core.
The sky was dark, the last lines of light fading to white behind the old man’s damp eyelids, marking the end of the shooting stars.
Astraea came with the Lyrids, and she left with them, too.
As the sun rose, illuminating the sky in an ordinary pink, the tired, old man returned home. There, despite the protests of his creaking bones, he began to empty the boxes that had sat untouched by the walls for years. From them he removed the possessions of his late daughter, and piled them all into the trash. Gone were her musty dresses and shoes. Gone were her toys and callow drawings. Gone were the photos in which the two of them had been smiling from ear to ear, frozen in a time that he could never return to.
Then he mopped the floors, rinsed his bed sheets, and scrubbed his skin, washing away the last inklings of his recent visitor’s stardust.
The next week, there was another shower of stars—the Eta Aquarids, they were called—but never again did the old man see Astraea-of-the-sky.
On one cool April evening, at the onset of the shooting stars, the old man found a little girl by the sea.
She was lying unconscious on the shore beneath the vibrant streaks of light in the sky, pale hair fanned out around her face, pearly skin draped upon small bones, coated in sand and a shimmering dust. After overcoming his initial shock, he picked her up and carried her back to his little house in the village, leaving an iridescent trail behind them.
#
The strange girl reminded the man of his late daughter. She was ten years old when her mother and she had been returning from their travels onboard a ship. There was a freak storm, and all of the voyagers disappeared beneath the water’s angry waves; they never recovered the bodies.
So it was with melancholic reminiscence that he tucked the girl into bed, her skin deathly cold against his wrinkled arms, and prepared a hot broth on his wood stove.
#
Hours later, she woke, still shivering beneath the downy quilts. The old man rushed to her side, a bowl of soup in hand. Limpid blue eyes widened in confusion, but she took the bowl that he had offered and quickly downed its contents.
“What is your name?” he prompted her gently afterwards. She stared at him with a blank expression.
“Well,” the old man sighed, smiling sadly, “you must be tired," and he blew out the lamp.
The little girl lay down uncertainly, pulling the covers to her chin. “Astraea,” she finally murmured beneath the moonlight. “My name.”
He turned in surprise, but she had already closed her eyes.
It was only afterwards that the old man noticed the sparkling dust that covered the floor, the walls, and his weary limbs.
#
That week, Astraea lived in the little house, refusing to go outside in the evenings when the falling stars were visible.
She spoke very little. “I don’t remember how I ended up on the beach,” she whispered when he asked, her voice trembling. “I don’t remember who I am.”
To cheer her up, the old man retrieved a set of coloured pencils and paper gathering dust in one of the cardboard boxes that he had not unpacked, and presented them to her. Astraea’s eyes lit up; she was delighted, and began to draw with an enthusiasm that only a child could muster.
“Look what I drew, Daddy!”
#
The days and nights passed effortlessly as the old man stayed by Astraea’s side, golden sunrises bleeding into starlit nights. In many undeniable ways, she was like his late daughter. They both brushed their long, fair hair out of their eyes using their pinky fingers, and ate delicately; they both possessed a passion for art; and they both adored his stories.
“Tell me about your family,” she said softly once when she was too tired to colour, curled up on the sofa. For the first time, the old man hesitated to comply with the girl’s wishes, not wanting to unearth the sorrows of his past. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, and began:
“I had a daughter, and she looked almost like you. When she was ten years old, a terrible accident happened...”
As he continued with his tale, Astraea remained silent. For a second there was a flicker of recognition in those distant eyes, but then, with a tilt of her head, she hid her face behind a curtain of hair. The quiver of her shoulders was the only sign that she was weeping.
#
In the middle of that very night, hours after he had put Astraea to sleep, the old man woke up with a premonition of disaster. With deliberate footsteps, he walked towards her room and opened the door.
The bed was made perfectly, the pillow flat against the sheets. The girl was nowhere to be found.
Panic bloomed inside his chest, and he was running, ignoring the pain in his legs as he hurried to the seashore. The stars were falling furiously, the flashes of opalescent light—green, pink, white—pouring from the sky like the last torrents of a celestial rain. Up and down the beach he raced, calling her name. As though some deity was playing a cruel trick on him, the similarity between this and the night his daughter had been swallowed up by the depths of the ocean became too much to bear. They had never recovered her body. Loss once again had him on his knees, brokenhearted and shaken to the core.
The sky was dark, the last lines of light fading to white behind the old man’s damp eyelids, marking the end of the shooting stars.
Astraea came with the Lyrids, and she left with them, too.
#
As the sun rose, illuminating the sky in an ordinary pink, the tired, old man returned home. There, despite the protests of his creaking bones, he began to empty the boxes that had sat untouched by the walls for years. From them he removed the possessions of his late daughter, and piled them all into the trash. Gone were her musty dresses and shoes. Gone were her toys and callow drawings. Gone were the photos in which the two of them had been smiling from ear to ear, frozen in a time that he could never return to.
Then he mopped the floors, rinsed his bed sheets, and scrubbed his skin, washing away the last inklings of his recent visitor’s stardust.
#
The next week, there was another shower of stars—the Eta Aquarids, they were called—but never again did the old man see Astraea-of-the-sky.
I wish I could see the stars from where I live.
Any constructive criticism is appreciated.
Any constructive criticism is appreciated.
© 2015 - 2024 dreamelancholia
Comments26
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This is just fantasticrazy yet extremely sad. The old man's back story was so sad, and it was said that Astraea was very similar to the old man's daughter, and it feels like she was the spirit of the old man's daughter returning to her father. It was so sad when the old man threw away all of his daughter's possessions, and this may have made me weep more than Puddles Pity Party (A performer from this year's America's Got Talent).
Anyway, this is just amazing and I absolutely loved it.
Anyway, this is just amazing and I absolutely loved it.