Sunday: The Night the Stars Fell (Again)
They didn’t sleep that night. Not really. The auroras had returned, even stronger—shifting colors like oil on water, pulsing with something ancient. The strange humming still echoed faintly in the air, like the Earth itself was holding its breath.
Then, sometime past 3 a.m., the sky tore open.
It began with one streak of light, then dozens, then thousands—brilliant meteors cascading in every direction, as if the stars were being spilled across the heavens. It was overwhelming—beautiful and terrifying.
Ivy Mae stood in the doorway, eyes wide. “The Leonids,” she said. “This happened in 1833. They thought it was the end of the world.”
“They weren’t entirely wrong,” Roman muttered, squinting at the sky. “It was the beginning of something new.”
Miracle whined softly. The cat hid again. And in that moment, no one spoke.
Above them, the stars continued to fall.
They didn’t know it yet—but buried beneath the forest floor, something had just been stirred awake.