We don’t see Astrid often, but when we do, it’s never for long. She passes overhead like someone that forgot the ground exists, slow enough to follow with your eyes, never slow enough to reach. The stars keep their distance from us — except for the ones she carries in her hands, turning them as she moves, checking them the way others might check a clasp or a seam. This one slipped just enough to fall from her fingers and catch somewhere it wasn’t meant to stay. By the time we realised what it was, it had already settled into place, held fast by the chain, bright in a way the rest of the world isn’t. It doesn’t behave like anything we know. The colours shift without reason, the surface catching light even when there is none to catch. Sometimes it feels heavier than it should, sometimes lighter. We’ve learned not to question it too much. If she comes back for it, we’ll know.
