🌌 Chapter 4 – When Stars Forget Their Names
The city didn't look the same anymore.
By morning, Lumina's skyline had dulled. The glass towers no longer reflected sunlight, and the billboards flickered like they were running out of power. People hurried through the streets as usual, but there was something off in their faces—like everyone was half-awake, their smiles faintly delayed, their eyes not quite focused.
Aurora stood at her window, her sketchbook open on the sill. The last page now showed something new—a clock, its hands melting into gold dust. Beneath it, scrawled in her handwriting though she didn't remember writing it, were the words:
"When the clock forgets to tick, find the door that listens."
She traced the words with her fingertip, heart racing. "What does that even mean?"
She had classes that day, but none of it mattered. Every time she blinked, she saw the café. The golden light. Elias's face. His warning.
The café will vanish at dawn.
Had dawn already come and gone? Or was she still somewhere between dreaming and waking?
---
She spent the next few hours wandering the city, sketchbook in hand, retracing her steps from last night. Crescent Street looked normal—just a stretch of old buildings and parked cars—but she noticed something strange.
Every time she passed the brick wall where the café had been, her phone flickered. The time jumped backward by a few seconds, then forward again.
She stepped closer. "Okay, if you're there… just give me a sign."
The air shimmered faintly, like heat above asphalt. A faint scent of cinnamon and roasted coffee filled the breeze. And just for a second, she heard it—the soft jazz melody that played in the café.
Then it was gone.
Her throat tightened. "Elias?"
Nothing. Just the distant hum of city traffic.
---
She ducked into a nearby bookstore to catch her breath. It was quiet, smelling of paper and rain. As she moved between shelves, she noticed something odd—a small section labeled "Forgotten Places."
Curious, she reached for a thin, leather-bound book without a title. The pages were blank except for one faint line written across the middle:
"The Guardian of Starlight must never fall in love with a dreamer."
Aurora froze. Her fingers trembled.
Before she could turn the page, a shadow fell over her. "You shouldn't read that," a voice murmured.
She spun around. The woman from the café—Astra—stood there, elegant and unearthly as ever, her coat shimmering faintly in the dim light.
"You again," Aurora breathed.
Astra sighed. "You're persistent. He always liked that about you."
"Where's Elias?"
Astra studied her, her expression softening. "He's fading. The café is too. When a Guardian breaks the rules, time erases the bond that caused it."
Aurora shook her head. "I don't care about rules. Just tell me how to find him."
Astra tilted her head, considering her. "Even if it costs you your reality?"
"Yes."
Something flickered in Astra's eyes—respect, maybe even pity. "You really are the same girl every time."
"What do you mean?" Aurora whispered.
But Astra was already walking away. "When stars forget their names, the dream repeats."
Aurora ran after her. "Wait! What does that mean?!"
But Astra was gone.
---
Back at home, the clock on Aurora's wall had stopped.
The air felt heavy, dense, almost liquid.
Her phone buzzed again.
> Unknown: "Midnight. The door will listen."
Aurora grabbed her coat and sketchbook, heart hammering. Midnight wasn't far off.
She ran through the city streets as rain began to fall—light, silvery drops that sparkled when they hit the pavement. The kind of rain she'd only seen once before: the night she found Starlight & Espresso.
By the time she reached Crescent Street, the rain had turned golden. Each droplet shimmered like melted stars. The brick wall glowed faintly, its surface rippling like liquid glass.
She took a deep breath. "Please let this work."
She pressed her palm against the wall.
The world held its breath.
Then the bricks dissolved beneath her hand, revealing the golden door once more. The bell chimed softly as she stepped through.
---
The café was there—but empty. The lights were dimmer now, the shelves dusty, the air still. The jazz record had stopped spinning.
"Elias?"
Her voice echoed through the quiet. No answer.
She wandered past the counter, fingertips brushing over cold porcelain cups. Everything looked the same, yet different—like she'd walked into a memory that no longer remembered itself.
Then she saw him.
Elias sat in the corner booth, head bowed, starlight flickering weakly around him. The glow from his eyes had dimmed to faint embers.
Aurora ran to him. "Elias! What happened?"
He looked up slowly, a tired smile tugging at his lips. "You shouldn't have come back."
She grabbed his hand. "Too bad. I did."
He exhaled, the sound half a laugh, half a sigh. "The café's collapsing. I can't hold it much longer."
"Then let me help."
"You can't." He cupped her cheek gently. "This world runs on dreams. The more you remember me, the faster it unravels."
Aurora shook her head, tears blurring her vision. "Then let it unravel. I don't care."
He smiled softly, his thumb brushing away a tear. "You always say that."
She blinked. "What?"
"This isn't the first time we've met, Aurora. It's just the first time you remembered."
Her heart stopped. "What do you mean?"
"Every lifetime, you find the café. Every time, you fall in love. And every time, you forget."
The lights flickered violently. The air split with a sharp, golden crack.
Aurora clutched his hand tighter. "Then maybe this time, I won't."
Elias leaned forward, his forehead against hers. "Then this time, the café will die for real."
The world around them began to fade—coffee cups turning to dust, stars winking out one by one.
She whispered, "Then let it."
And for a heartbeat, everything went still.
---
Outside, the rain stopped.
The city lights brightened.
The stars blinked back to life.
But when Aurora opened her eyes, she was sitting alone on a park bench, dawn breaking in shades of gold. Her sketchbook rested on her lap.
On the last page, a fresh sketch glowed faintly. It was the café—door open, lights warm—and a single line beneath it:
"Come find me again."