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Rgy sat on the warm rock and breathed out slowly. The valley below was already dreaming—cottages glowed softly like sleeping eyes. Above, the first stars were beginning to prick through the blue, each one a small, familiar promise. Rgy had been coming to this rock for as long as their scales could remember, waiting for the sky to darken, waiting for the night to arrive just right. Tonight felt especially soft, especially quiet. The air was beginning to cool, and Rgy's iridescent skin shimmered in the twilight, shifting from deep blue to a warm rose at the edges.
Every night, Rgy counted the stars. It was a habit older than habit—a rhythm, like breathing. One, two, three... by the time Rgy reached fifty, the body always grew slower, heavier, sweeter. The stars were friends. Each one had a pattern, a shape in the dark. And tonight, as Rgy's eyes traced their familiar paths, something felt wrong. Rgy counted again. Forty-seven... ninety-three... eight hundred and forty-seven. Eight hundred and forty-seven. There should have been eight hundred and fifty-two.
Rgy stood up quickly. This had never happened. The rock seemed to tilt beneath small feet. Where were the five? Had they moved? Rgy's large dark eyes scanned the sky in sharp, urgent movements, searching the spaces between the familiar lights. Could a star hide? Could it change its mind about shining? The heart in Rgy's small chest beat a little faster. And then—there. A silvery glimmer, moving slowly westward. A tail of light, trailing like a ribbon pulled through water.
Rgy's breath caught. It was Comet Aether. Old Aether, who only passed through once every hundred years. Rgy's grandmother had told stories about the last visit—how the sky had shimmered, how the nights had sung. But Rgy had never seen it before. And now, as the comet's tail unfurled, Rgy understood. The missing stars weren't lost. They were being gently gathered up, like children called home, like notes drawn into a melody.
Rgy sat back down on the warm rock. The feelings were complicated—too big and too soft all at once. Sadness, yes. But also something else. Wonder. The stars were leaving, truly leaving, and Rgy could do nothing to stop it. So Rgy made a choice. Tonight, Rgy would not sleep. Tonight, Rgy would watch the whole sky change, would be present for the goodbye. The decision made Rgy's scales tingle. Sleep pulled at Rgy's edges, gentle as always, but Rgy held firm.
Rgy climbed higher on the rock, reaching. The comet was drawing nearer now, and each moment it grew larger, more real. The stars in its tail were singing somehow—not with sound, but with light. Pulses of warmth, signals traveling across the dark. Rgy's small heart felt very large. And then the comet did something unexpected. It slowed. Its vast tail unfurled even wider, and for just an instant, it seemed to notice the tiny, luminous creature on the rock below.
Rgy reached out, and in reaching, somehow spoke. Not with words—but with longing, with question. The comet heard. It always heard. And when it spoke back, its voice was old and tired and kinder than anything Rgy had ever known. “The stars have asked to travel,” the comet said, each word glowing softly. “There are skies that have forgotten light. Worlds that need waking. Your stars are brave. They go to help.” Rgy's scales shimmered, catching the truth of it.
“Will they come back?” Rgy's voice was very small. The comet hummed—a sound like wind chimes, like the memory of bells. “Some things return,” it said. “Some become memory. Both matter equally. Both are how we love.” The words fell into Rgy like snow, settling into every small, tired place. Rgy nodded, though the nodding felt very difficult now. The comet drifted closer still, and its silver light pooled around Rgy like warmth.
One by one, more stars rose into the comet's tail. They glowed as they climbed, each one singing its own note of departure. Rgy watched them go without turning away. The goodbye was beautiful. The goodbye was slow. The goodbye felt, somehow, like the most important thing Rgy had ever witnessed. And Rgy began to understand that watching someone leave with love was just as real as watching them stay. Just as brave. Just as whole.
But then something unexpected happened. One small star broke away from the tail. It spiraled, glowing brighter, and drifted down toward the rock. Down, down. It settled near Rgy, pulsing with a steady, warm amber light. Rgy stared. The star was so close now. Close enough to feel its warmth, close enough to know its rhythm. It had chosen to stay. It had chosen Rgy.
Rgy understood without needing to ask. Some connections don't fade. Some stars choose to stay behind, not to replace what's leaving, but to remind you that you were loved. That you are loved. Rgy's large eyes grew heavy, but warm. The sadness was still there—it would always be there. But it was no longer alone. It had a companion now. It had a star.
The comet whispered a lullaby in silver light. The remaining stars in its tail began to hum, a soft, ancient song. Rgy's breathing slowed. The urgency melted like snow. The need to hold on began to turn into something else—permission. Release. The sky was saying goodbye, but it was also saying: rest now. You have seen enough. You have loved enough. Sleep is waiting.
Rgy curled up on the warm rock, small and tucked like a seed. The comet drifted westward, its tail growing smaller, fainter. The sky was darker now. Quieter. But Rgy did not feel alone. The one small star pulsed steadily above, a heartbeat of light. And in Rgy's chest, the memories of all the other stars lived on, warm and safe and held. The night wrapped around Rgy like a blanket.
Rgy's eyes grew softer. The edges of the world began to blur. Sleep, finally, began to come. Not as interruption, but as gift. As belonging. As the natural close of something true. Rgy's scales dimmed slightly, matching the quiet sky. The rock held the small body gently. And above, the one faithful star kept its watch, a small promise in the dark.
In sleep, Rgy walked through skies that had never seen light before. The comet's tail spread like paint across the dark, bringing stars to worlds that had forgotten they could shine. And somewhere in that dream, Rgy understood something the night had been teaching all along: goodbye and hello live in the same heart. And the heart is big enough for both. When dawn came soft and grey, Rgy woke. The star was still there. Still shining. Still home.
