All of the stars

 As a child, Mira would lie on the roof of her grandfather’s house, staring up at the night sky through a rusty old telescope. The stars were endless, scattered like glitter over black velvet. One evening, frustrated after struggling to find a particular constellation, she sighed, “They all looking the same.”


Her grandfather, a retired physicist with kind eyes, handed her a mug of cocoa and said, “Ah, but they aren’t. Each one burns differently. Some die quietly. Some explode into brilliance. Some are so far, their light is just now reaching you.”

He tapped her chest gently. “You like that too. Part of something vast, yes. But you shine in your own time, girl.”


Years later, Mira became a quantum researcher, chasing the mysteries of particles and probability. But on hard days, when data blurred and doubts crept in, she’d remember that night on the roof. And she’d whisper to herself:


“I am not lost in the stars. I am one of them.”


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