Silent Stars

The stars spoke to her before she could speak back.

Lyra drifted through the dark, her thin frame tucked inside the worn flight suit she’d inherited from her mother. The ship’s dim glow cast soft, tired light across the console, blinking quietly as if trying not to disturb her. Outside the viewport, a nebula unfurled its arms in violet and pale gold and stretched across the void like a god’s breath. Lyra had no words for it, though the sight burned beneath her ribs with an ache that felt close to memory.

Her comms were dark. They had been for days.

Lyra used to hum to fill the silence. Her mother taught her old songs—soft lilting notes that curled around the walls of their ship, half lullaby, half prayer. But the hum had gone brittle in her throat since she woke alone two weeks ago to an empty ship. The last thing her mother had said was: Stay quiet. They can hear.

And then she was gone.

The ship’s sensors flickered to life with a delicate chime. Lyra’s gaze sharpened. Out the viewport, something stirred in the dark—slender threads of silver light drifting through the black like smoke underwater. Lyra’s hand twitched toward the comms panel. She knew better than to send out a signal. Her mother’s last words hummed behind her teeth. They can hear.

Her throat tightened.

The lights gathered. Silver light coalesced into a shape—a figure. Vaguely humanoid. Luminous and pale, dark streaks bleeding through its form like ink dropped in water. It had no face, only a deep hollow where a face should have been. Its long limbs stretched unnaturally as it floated toward the ship, the distance between them thinning with each slow pulse of light.

Lyra stumbled back from the console, heart hammering painfully in her chest. She pressed her back against the cold metal of the bulkhead. Breath ragged. Chest heaving.

Her lips parted. A soundless gasp.

The figure drifted closer. It raised a hand—thin as bone, lined with pulsing light. It touched the glass of the viewport. A low sound filled the cabin, vibrating through the walls and into her bones. Not a voice. A note, low and resonant.

Lyra’s mouth opened. Her throat strained, but the sound trapped inside her stayed there, stuck beneath her ribs like thorns.

The figure’s hand dragged down the glass, leaving a streak of pale light in its wake. The sound sharpened. An ache beneath her skin. Lyra’s hand curled into a fist at her side. Her mother’s words echoed again: Stay quiet. They can hear.

The figure leaned closer. The glass between them darkened, light flickering through the hollow of its face.

Lyra’s head throbbed. A bloom of pressure behind her eyes. Her hands trembled at her sides. Her mouth worked, trying to shape sound. Trying to speak.

Trying to scream.

But nothing came out.

-

Her mother had once told her about the Starborn. Old gods, she’d said, voice low with something close to reverence. They lost their voices long ago, so they take the voices of others. They take sound like breath, like life. You cannot speak to them. You must not try.

Lyra had been five years old when she first saw one. A shape in the dark beyond the glass, its limbs unraveling like silk. Her mother had pulled her away from the viewport, hands rough on her shoulders.

"Don’t speak to them."

"Why?"

"Because they will listen."

-

The figure lingered at the glass, its hollow face pressed close enough for Lyra to see the dark depths within it. Another low sound echoed through the ship, almost like a song. It curled around her chest, burrowed beneath her skin.

Lyra pressed her hands over her mouth as if the sound could crawl out of her throat if she wasn’t careful.

The figure’s hand drifted toward the panel by the viewport. A thread of light traced the outline of the ship’s hull. A slow pulse of silver.

And then—

"Lyra."

She froze.

The voice was soft. Familiar.

"Lyra."

Her mother’s voice.

Her hands dropped from her mouth.

"Come here."

Lyra stumbled forward, her knees striking the cold deck. Her breath hitched painfully in her chest. She pressed her hand to the glass. The figure tilted its head. Slowly, dark fingers unfolded, pressing against the glass to meet her touch.

"I’m here."

Her mother’s voice—faint and thin. But behind it, a hum of static, wrong and dark.

Lyra’s fingers curled against the glass.

"Where did you go?" she wanted to ask. But her throat stayed locked. No sound emerged.

The figure’s hand darkened where it touched the glass, streaks of black spreading through the silver. Lyra’s pulse raced.

"Come with me," her mother’s voice said.

"I can’t," Lyra’s mouth formed the words, but no sound left her.

The figure leaned closer. A deep pulse of light flickered behind its hollow face.

"Lyra, please."

Her breath hitched. A soundless cry.

The glass beneath her hand burned cold. A bright thread of light wrapped around her wrist, drawing her forward. Her breath shortened. Her body trembled.

"Come with me."

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"No."

The word burst from her throat, sharp and jagged, ripping through the silence like glass shattering. Her voice scraped her throat raw, thin from disuse.

The figure’s hand jerked back.

The light fractured. A hiss of dark static filled the ship. The figure’s hollow face contorted. The shape of her mother’s voice twisted, bending into something sharp.

"No."

Lyra’s voice sharpened. Stronger.

The figure’s light dimmed. The hum of static cracked. Dark lines splintered across its form. It flinched, the silver threads unraveling from its limbs.

"Leave me alone!"

Her voice struck through the dark. The figure dissolved, tendrils of silver burning into black. The hum of static fractured, faded into the empty hush of the ship. The glass of the viewport fogged with pale light, then dimmed.

Silence.

Lyra’s knees struck the floor. Her breath tore from her throat. She pressed a hand to her chest, where her heart pounded a wild

rhythm beneath her ribs.

She stayed there for a long time.

Outside the viewport, the nebula glowed faintly in the dark. Pale gold through violet shadow.

Her hand brushed her throat. A thin rasp of breath dragged through her lungs. Then, quietly—

"I’m here."

Her voice trembled. But it was hers.

The stars beyond the glass pulsed faintly in answer.