The night sky over the Philippine tryside was a cathedral of light. A billion stars bzed in the void, their brilliandimmed by the smog and neon of the city. The Milky rawled overhead like a river of diamonds, its current flowing through steltions older than human nguage. Orion stood eternal, his belt gleaming, while Cassiopeia reed ihrone of stars. Fireflies drifted zily iall grass, their glow mimig the heavens, and the air hummed with the whispers of cicadas. It was a night so vast, so agly beautiful, it made the universe feel both infinite and intimate—a secret shared between father and son.The boy y on a frayed piiket, his small fingers clutg a thermos of tsokote, its warmth seeping into his palms. His father sat beside him, a silhouette against the os, pointing to a flickering star he horizon. “That one’s Vega,” he said, his voice low with reverewenty-five lightyears away. The light you’re seeihat star when you were just a baby.”

  The boy squinted. “Is it still there now?”

  His father ughed, a sound as warm as the chocote in the boy’s hands. “Maybe. Maybe not. Stars die, anak. But their light keeps traveling, even after they’re gone. Like… like stories.”

  “But what’s the point?” the boy pressed, his brow furrowing. “If it’s already dead, why does it matter?”

  His father turo him, the starlight catg the smile lines around his eyes. “Because the light’s still here, isn’t it? It’s still showing us something. Even if Vega’s go gave us this.” He gestured to the sky. “Maybe the universe isn’t about sting forever. Maybe it’s about leaving somethiiful behind.”

  The boy frowned, unsatisfied. “But when we die, we don’t leave light. We just… disappear.”

  For a moment, his father was quiet. Then he ruffled the boy’s hair. “We leave stories. Memories. Love. That’s ht.”

  The boy opened his mouth tue, but a meteor streaked across the sky—a fleeting scratch of gold. His father grinned. “Make a wish!”

  The boy closed his eyes. “I wish I could uand.”