Light From Uncommon Stars

by Ryka Aoki

“When you think of love, is it somewhere the colors are brighter and everything seems to glow?” Astrid said casually. “With no pain, like your heart is skipping and doing cartwheels?” Katrina looked down. “No, ma’am.” As if someone like her could have a life like that. “Good.” “M-Miss Astrid?” “Good. Because love is so much more than that, isn’t it?”

Catalin Matía would smile whenever someone described great music as divine. To him, that was nonsense. Great music is all about weakness, uncertainty, mortality—what does Heaven know of these? In the same way, there is nothing transcendent about a violin. It is maple, spruce, ebony, an ounce or so of hide glue, some brushes of varnish. Perhaps this why the violin fits the human soul fit so perfectly—only such a simple, mortal object can hold its fragility and turn it into a prayer.

From the darkness, Katrina willed her violin to build their world. To let there be light, let there be colors, then calculus and molecules and starlit vistas, let there be home after home after home where no one yelled and no one was beaten. You can do this, Katrina’s song seemed to tell them. This is your universe. Your creation. Please don’t be afraid. Let’s not be afraid anymore.

With no need for a beginning, nor any reason to end, the music continues. And so, no matter who you are, where you came from, what sins you have committed or hurt you have endured … when you are alone and there is no universe left to remember you. You can always, always rewrite your song.