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Elara began to weave. She didn't weave the grand nebulae or the blinding suns this time. She wove the grey dust of the planet, the cold touch of the child's hand, and the single, shimmering drop of water in the dying flower. She wove the sadness of her long journey and the joy of her sudden understanding.

Years turned into decades. Elara’s light-skiff grew weathered, and her own light began to dim. She felt a heavy sadness settling over her, a fear that she had chased a ghost, a meaningless sequence of syllables born from a fever dream. Beautibhpabhipvzip

Elara looked at the dying flower. It was brittle, colorless, and clearly at the end of its life. But as she looked closer, she saw something she hadn't noticed before. In the very center of the flower, a single, tiny drop of moisture had gathered. In that drop, the reflection of the dying star was captured, transformed from a terrifying omen of destruction into a microscopic, shimmering jewel of light. Elara began to weave

She looked down to see a child, no more than five or six, with skin the color of twilight and eyes like obsidian. The child was holding a small, translucent flower, its petals cracked and dry. She wove the sadness of her long journey