Polaris Found

Time passes.

Time passes since the sailor last saw the world. They sailed off it. Now the sailor drifts, adrift in a sea darker than dark. A sea that glistens and sloshes like ink. A Sea with no stars above to light it. But Sailor continues, searching for Polaris.

There was a time when the sky was full, and no one feared the dark. Shining stars littered the heavens, and among them sat Polaris. The North Star, unshaken by the turning of the Earth. By its light, sailors found their way. By its constancy, they built their faith. But faith is a fragile thing. And so are stars.

****

Days melt into nights, and nights into the same endless black. The sailor leans against the mast, a map spread across their lap. Their calloused fingers trace the lines, over and over. The sailor speaks to the waves sometimes, mumbling names they barely remember. At first, the words were defiant, hurled into the void. Then they became bargains. Now, the sailor barely speaks at all. 

Everyone knows the sea has no appetite for promises.

The sailor lays back, closing their eyes, letting the boat’s gentle sway lull them toward sleep. That’s when it comes—a voice, soft and clear, as though it rises from the water itself.

“Are you lost?”

The sailor’s eyes snap open. Bolting upright, they scan the deck. “Who’s there?” The sailor rasps, voice rough from disuse.

No answer. The silence presses in, heavier now. Then, a figure appears, as if it has been there the whole time. It stands motionless, its outline faint, as if carved from the soft light of a waxing moon. Its hair floats like threads of silver caught in a current, and its eyes shimmer like forgotten stars.

The sailor’s chest tightens in fear. And for the first time in a long time, they feel their heart beating. “Who—what are you?”

The figure tilts its head, expression calm. “Someone who wonders why you’re still searching.”

the sailor raises their knife like any sane person would do.

“Stay back,” says the sailor, their voice low, almost swallowed by the waves.

The figure doesn’t move. It stands at the edge of the boat, its bare feet glowing faintly, as though it had swallowed a star. “Do you think I’m here to hurt you?”

“I don’t know why you’re here,” replies the sailor, grip tightening on the knife.

“To watch,” the figure says.

The sailor frowns. “Watch what?”

“To see if you’ll keep going,” it says, stepping onto the deck. Its movements are fluid, silent. “To see if you’ll keep searching.”

The sailor knees buckle as it approaches, the knife still clutched in their hand. “Who are you?” This time, the sailor’s voice pleads.

The figure stops a few feet away, kneeling so their eyes meet with the sailor’s. “I’m what remains,” it says.

“Of what?”

“The stars.”

“That’s impossible,” whispers the sailor, trying to make sense of it all. 

“So is a person surviving this long in a sea with no shore,” replies the figure. Its faint smile suggests something not quite pity, not quite mirth.

The sailor shakes their head, their voice is hoarse. “I don’t believe you.”

The figure’s light dims for a moment, its expression softening, as though it had expected this. “You don’t need to,” it says. “You’ve been searching for something, haven’t you?”

“Polaris,” the sailor whispers, almost to themself.

The figure nods. “And now you’ve found me.”

“Polaris?” The sailor’s breath catches. The knife slips from their fingers, clattering onto the deck. They don’t reach for it.

The sailor wants to laugh, to cry, to scream at the absurdity of it all. Instead, they just sink back onto the planks, resting their head against the mast. Their chest heaves, but after a few moments their voice is steady with anticipation, eager to know the answer to their next question. 

“If you’re Polaris,” says the sailor, “then where am I supposed to go?”

Polaris doesn’t answer. It moves to the bow, sitting with a quiet grace. Its light casts long, faint shadows across the boat. Above them, the sky remains dark, as vast and unknowable as the ocean itself.

Time passes.

The sailor doesn’t sleep that night. They sit in the middle of the lifeboat, legs crossed, watching Polaris at the bow. Its light pulses faintly, rising and falling like a breath, though it never seems to move. And the stillness between them is unbearable, as if the sea itself holds its breath.

Finally, the sailor breaks the silence. “If you’re a star,” they say, “then why are you here? Stars belong in the sky.”

Polaris tilts its head slightly, the faint glow of its eyes fixing on them. “And sailors are supposed to be navigators,” it replies. “Yet here we are.”

The sailor frowns, their hands resting on the rough planks of the boat. “That’s not an answer.”

Polaris shrugs.

The sailor leans forward, their brow furrowed. “The constellations—they were real. I used them. They kept me alive. And then one night, they just—disappeared. Gone. Like they were never there at all.” They gesture toward the blank sky. “How does that happen?”

Polaris’s light flickers, and a small wave of sadness crosses its face. “Stars die,” it says simply. “Even the ones that guide you.”

“But they didn’t just die. They left nothing behind. No trace, no faint light, no... no Polaris.”

Polaris’s expression softens. “Perhaps they left you something else.”

“Like what?” the sailor snaps, frustration spilling over. “A blank map? An empty sky? A sea that leads nowhere?”

Polaris stands then, its glow growing slightly brighter as it looks out at the horizon. “A question,” it says.

The sailor blinks, caught off guard. “A question?”

“Yes.” It turns back to them, its gaze steady. “What will you do without them?”

The sailor stares at Polaris, their hands clenching into fists. “I don’t know,” they admit. “I’ve been searching so long, I don’t even remember what I’m searching for.”

Polaris walks toward them, its bare feet silent on the planks. Kneeling in front of them, it reaches out and places a glowing hand over their heart. Its touch isn’t warm or cold, but it thrums faintly, like a distant echo.

“Then perhaps,” it says, “it’s not about finding what you lost. Perhaps it’s about what you find in searching.”

Its words linger in the air, heavy and fragile all at once. The sailor feels the rhythm of their heart beneath its hand, uneven but undeniable. They close their eyes, letting the sound of the waves fill the space between them.

When they open their eyes again, Polaris is back at the bow.

Time passes.

The boat drifts in silence, the rhythm of the waves steady but unrelenting. The sailor can’t stop looking at Polaris, the way its edges seem to blur and shimmer, like light seen through tears.

“Tell me something,” the sailor says, their voice sharp in the quiet.

Polaris doesn’t turn, but its glow flickers slightly. “What do you want to know?”

The sailor hesitates. They don’t know where to start. “The stars. Why did they die?”

Polaris’s glow pulses. “The stars didn’t just die,” it says. “They burned out, one by one. Not all at once, as you might think. But you only noticed when they were gone.”

The sailor frowns. “That doesn’t make sense. Polaris doesn’t move. It’s constant. Reliable. It doesn’t just burn out—it can’t”

“Nothing is constant,” Polaris replies. “Even I was only a memory of light, long after my flame had died.”

Its words strike the sailor in a place they hadn’t expected, like a crack running through stone finally giving way to the slow stream. They clench their fists. Tears start to swell. “Then why didn’t anyone warn us? If the stars were dying, why didn’t we see it coming?”

Polaris turns to them now, its gaze steady, its glow softer. “Perhaps you did. But what would you have done differently?”

The sailor opens their mouth to answer, but no words come. They stare at Polaris, the question wrapping itself around their throat like a noose.

“People build their lives on things they believe will last forever,” Polaris continues, its voice quiet but firm. “They don’t notice the cracks until it’s too late. Even then, they keep looking to the same things, hoping they’ll be there again.”

The sailor shakes their head, their breath uneven. “So, there is nothing.”

Polaris kneels in front of them, its light spilling across the planks. “You were never left with nothing,” it says. “The stars didn’t guide you because they were there. They guided you because you believed in them. That belief didn’t die when they did.”

The sailor looks away, their eyes fixed on the dark horizon. “Belief doesn’t chart a course. It doesn’t find land. It doesn’t stop you from drowning.”

“No,” Polaris says softly. “But it keeps you moving.”

Time passes.

The sea is still, its surface smooth and dark as obsidian. The sailor sits at the edge of the boat, knees drawn up, arms draped over them like a scared child. They stare into the water, their reflection barely visible in the faint glow of Polaris’s light. The ocean seems to hold its breath, waiting.

“Do you ever wonder if it’s all for nothing?” the sailor asks suddenly.

Polaris stands at the bow, back turned, their outline faint against the dark. “What do you mean?”

The sailor gestures to the water, to the blank sky above. “This. All of it. The searching, the hoping. What if there’s nothing at the end of it?”

Polaris turns. “Would you stop if there wasn’t?”

The sailor hesitates. “I don’t know.”

Polaris kneels beside them at the edge of the boat. Their glow spills over the side, lighting the water below. “Look,” Polaris says.

The sailor leans forward, peering into the water. At first, they see only themselves—a pale, hollow face, wild hair, sunken eyes. They look older than they remember, worn down by the sea and the emptiness it carries.

But as they watch, the reflection begins to shift. The lines of their face blur, dissolving into something else. Stars bloom in the darkness, one by one, until constellations form. And there, Polaris burns at the center, bright and unyielding, the anchor to a sky reborn.

The sailor flinches, breath catching. “What is this?”

“A memory,” Polaris says softly.

The sailor’s brow furrows. “A memory of what?”

“Of what you’re searching for.”

They look up at Polaris, their chest tight. “But it’s not real. The stars—they’re gone. I can't use a memory”

Polaris reaches out, their hand brushing lightly against the sailor’s shoulder. The touch is weightless but steady, grounding them even as the words threaten to unravel them. “It doesn’t matter if it’s real,” Polaris says. “What matters is what it means to you.”

The sailor turns back to the water, their reflection fading into the depths once more. The stars are gone, and yet the image lingers in their mind, fragile and impossible. Something stirs in their chest, faint and distant, like the echo.

They clench their hands, nails digging into their palms. “If they’re only a memory, how am I supposed to keep moving?”

“Because you carry the stars with you, even now. The question isn’t where they’ve gone. The question is whether you’ll let them guide you again.”

The sailor stares at the horizon. It is a perfect, unbroken line, dividing the vast darkness into sea and sky. They have spent so many nights searching that line for a flicker, a sign, anything to tell them where to go. Now, it seems to stare back, daring them to make the first move.

“I don’t know where to go,” the sailor says. Their voice is steady, though it feels hollow in their chest.

Polaris’s light brightens slightly, their presence warming the back of the sailor’s neck. “You’ve never known,” Polaris replies. “That’s never stopped you before.”

The sailor grips the edge of the boat, their fingers pressing into the rough wood. “Before, I had a map. I had stars. I had...” They trail off, their voice cracking. “I had something.”

“You have a choice,” Polaris says simply.

The sailor turns to look at them, their eyes narrowing. “A choice to do what? Drift until the sea takes me?”

Polaris steps closer. Their glow spills across the deck, catching in the lines of the sailor’s face. “A choice to believe,” Polaris says.

“In what?” the sailor asks, their voice desperate.

“In yourself.”

The words hit harder than the sailor expects, like a wave breaking over their chest. They turn back to the horizon, their eyes searching the dark for answers they know aren’t there.

“And if I fail?” they whisper.

Polaris rests a hand lightly on the sailor’s shoulder, the touch steady and grounding. “Then you fail. But failure isn’t the end. It’s only the next step forward.”

The sailor closes their eyes, the sound of the waves filling their ears. For so long, the rhythm has felt like a mockery, a reminder of all they’ve lost. Now, it sounds different—patient, steady, waiting.

It's time for the sailor to sail.

Time passes.