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It has been like this for nearly fifteen years.
One day the empty house in your neighbourhood was suddenly inhabited by a weird-looking stranger speaking in a foreign language.
One day your partner couldn’t remember half of the places they used to go for their best catches.
One day your child ran away from home. He took your boat, the hat and the cloak you made him last year. He left a plate still full of food and all of his things.
The stars were bright when you made a wish for his return. The stars seemed cruel when no one could find him or your boat.
Your mother told you the sea takes lives all the time, and now you should only wish that he was dead, because while lost on the sea, living meant a far crueler fate.
Your partner told you you would never cease searching for him. That as long as any of you is alive, you’re going to look for him, wish to the Universe for his return.
Your friends told you about the other side of the sea. About the languages no one really speaks that make you dizzy while reading or hearing, about the lands that are much bigger and different. That maybe while getting lost your child got stranded there, unable to cross the sea, just like you can’t.
Your heart told you nothing. While laying on the beach alone. While looking at the stars, having no one to teach about constellations. While dreaming about his face and no longer remembering the details of it. It felt like your heart left with him.
It took you five years to finally accept it. To finally pack his things. To remove his drawings made with still more childish than teenage hands. To give away his telescope, too full of memories - right now, too painful memories - to keep it.
After that, you laid down in your bed unable to move for at least a few days. It was like removing a leg, after pretending it’s not dead for a long time. Your body was in shock, your lungs were drowning, but you knew it would soon make everything easier.
After ten years, you could talk about him once again. You were talking about him to your neighbour - the weird one, with dark hair and an accent as if she was still learning your language. And she smiled sadly; she maybe replied something - or maybe not, you were too occupied in your own, simpler after years, but still grief - and you felt understood, even if she could never really understand the pain of losing your child.
You got back his telescope. Your partner uses it nowadays, carrying it, as if they had the whole Universe in their two hands.
But when nearly fifteen years have passed since that dreadful day, and you are sitting on the dark sands of the beach, looking at the mirror of the starry night sky, you are alone.
You don’t have a telescope with you, your pair of eyes being enough for the bright stars.
Even if the stars never answered your wishes, you don’t hold a grudge. You still enjoy looking at them, just like you - you and your child - enjoyed doing it so many years ago.
The stars have never changed, even when you and your grief have.
The sand is uncomfortable, enough to not let you fall asleep, but not enough to bother you. Your child was so different from you - he could fall asleep anywhere, but always commented about how you should take a blanket next time. Right before he fell asleep in the middle of the sentence.
You sometimes wonder what kind of person he would become. But in your mind he always would become someone terrific, so kind and smart, such a special kid, just like thousands of children to grieving parents.
And then a single comet cut through the polka-dotted black sky.
And just like always, you make a wish.
Long ago you stopped wishing for his return.
Now you only wish for his happiness, wherever he is.
For people who would love him, just like you still love him.
And for stars who would always guide him home, even if it’s somewhere else.
The wind shifts.
The sand moves.
The sea quiets down.
If you were more of a dreamer, just like your partner, you would think of it as a sign. But you stopped believing in signs years ago.
Someone’s singular step sounds louder than waves.
Rarely do people come to this side of the beach. It used to be a popular place, until looking at the horizon started giving headaches and confusion. Now they stargaze in different parts of the town.
But you like looking at the horizon. You like to imagine your child on the other side of the impenetrable sea, looking with the same headache and confusion towards you.
Now, it’s only you and a newcomer.
The rustle of fabric comes to your ears, but you don’t really care. You aren’t waiting for anyone, and the steps are too light to be your partner, parents, or friends.
And then..
...they speak.
And it isn’t the voice of your partner, not exactly. But it's a voice that is so similar to theirs. But has a different melody, familiar, though completely alien.
Your heart is beating in your ears so loud, if the person said anything more, you wouldn’t be able to hear it.
You turn back away from the sea.
Towards the newcomer.
You see your own eye on a stranger’s face. You would think it a mirror, if not for a different number of visible eyes, one of them hidden behind an eyepatch.
And just like sand is mirroring the starry sky, there is nothing around that could mirror even only one half of your face.
And then you see the cloak, the one you haven’t seen for the last fifteen years. Your family pins, the same as you have. The hat that caused such bright laughter when you gifted it, a long time ago.
And… Oh, Universe. Stars. Gods that have been forgotten years and years ago. You beg them. For this to not be just a stupid illusion or hallucination.
The person… Your child looks at you with a similar awe that, for sure, is depicted on your face.
He absorbs your whole appearance, your wrinkles, your hair, not only bright anymore, but partially white. His eyes- eye devours it, as if a few minutes could compensate him for the last fifteen years.
You’re scared to do it, but… If it’s an illusion... hallucination... if you've gone mad after so many years of longing… You need to know before your hope turns into something real.
So you call his name.
He startles. His eye is growing big and bewildered, as if he is shocked to hear his own name.
It lasts a single beat, a second, everything silent around you as if the world has stopped just to give you two a moment for yourselves.
In a time that would take you to blink - but you don’t blink, you would not dare to blink - your child appears in your arms, embracing you while you both fall onto sand, both of you crying and muttering words which don’t matter, the sound of your voices giving you enough comfort.
And when you look at your child, your adult child in your embrace, the tears are blurring the image of your child, making him look like something else.
A star.