It was the twilight hour; the hour when the sun dangles likes a pulsing heart in the sky, opposite an enormous, soft moon. It is the hour when the sky is a precious indigo. It is the hour when stars are thrown carelessly across the sky casting a path for the cosmos to follow. It is the hour between day and night. It is the hour when everything turns quiet. For him, it is the best hour.

The boy stood there in his small living room, watching the stars and the moon and the sun glide effortlessly in the open sky, each hanging gloriously, tremendously. He stood at the large floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at space, at the infinite reality that we might not be alone.

Normally, he was not able to see the city below; there was normally a heavy fog cast around the city, making it look blurred and blotched and broken. But tonight everything was clear – clear and sharp. He could see the giant steel and glass structures. He could see the giant plots of parks and the long sliver of the silver river that reflected the sun and the moon, making it look like blood running with iron.


He sighed at the perfect view, the view of life, stretched out before his eyes. A sharp bell echoed around him and he turned away from the window, an amused twitch playing on his lips. The boy was young, but his eyes held wisdom far beyond his fourteen years. His eyes were grey and shining; they were gentle and deep, and the knowledge in them did not scare, but assure. His eyes were guarded by a thick ring of dark lashes, guarding his eyes, clashing with his golden mane of hair.


A high, shrill ring rang throughout the room again and the golden boy walked over to the old black telephone on the black and pink marble table. He picked it up just after the next piercing ring. “Hello?” he said, his voice as soft and as flowing as honey.

But the line was dead; there was just the gentle hum of silence, caressing his star-filled mind with its solitude. The golden boy held the receiver to his ear and closed his eyes, letting his fingers wander over the marble, tracing the white and pink and yellow veins, cut deep down into the deep blackness of the stone table. He smiled gently at the quietness of the nothing before setting the phone on the cradle. He slowly walked back to the window.

When he got back to the threefold view his heart tightened in annoyance, he had missed the departure. It was just the moon and its children now; the sun had left her night-time counterparts. The golden boy wondered what she had spoken to the moon as she had left. What words passed between the two? Was it just words of idle chatter about what the sun had seen that day? And what the moon expected to see tonight? Or was there something else between the moon and the sun? Some great love affair? Did they whisper the secrets of loves? Was the hour between day and night, the twilight hour, the only time when the moon and the sun could speak to each other, murmur the sweet nothings of love to each other? Were they long time lovers, afraid to tell the world? Forbidden to see one and other throughout the day, throughout the night? What words passed between the sun and the moon?

The boy hoped it was the latter; he hoped that love was inestimable, that it existed even out in the stars, beyond the boundaries of mankind. He smiled before sighing. He watched the moon, looking limp in the sky grieving after her lover’s quiet departure. He watched the city beneath him, watched their artificial lights and the synthetic noises of their cars and their steel and their shouts of fury. He watched the stars, nailed tightly into the sky. He watched down over the world, playing God just like every other night.

Everything was different tonight. The golden-touched child had watched the sky every night since he was four, and every night he wished upon the tightly nailed stars, the pasted moon. Every night he wished for love, and hope and dreams of a better world.

And every night he looked out into space and he saw the beauty of the sun and the moon and the stars. They would never change; they would never leave him like everyone else had. The sun, the moon and the stars, they were his constants. But never had there been a night, in his ten years of star gazing, that something, anything, quite like this had happened. A star, a beautiful brightly burning star, was unscrewed from the silk of the sky, and flew down from the night. It soared in the sky, like a slash of brilliance, of beauty, of everything he had hoped for. And suddenly he no longer had to wish on pin-pointed stars, suddenly there was a starfalling in front of his eyes, over his horizon and he saw that all of his dreams would come true. He saw the hope and the dreams and love in the world.

And he knew everything would be okay and that every unanswered, unasked question if the world would be answered. Because he had finally seen the infinite love of everything.