Beneath a Starry Blanket

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and fading ember. Agenda, usually a blur of bland sameness, seemed to hold its breath, a silent pause before the real performance began. But for us, the performance was already underway, a slow, creaking symphony of wood and water. The boat, our humble vessel, rocked gently, a cradle on the vast, dark expanse.

I lay on my back, the rough planks of the deck digging into my shoulders. Above, the sky unfurled like a velvet cloak, studded with a million diamond chips. Stars. So many stars. In Agenda, the nights were a washed-out grey, the sky a dull canvas, as if the very light had been rationed. Here, it was a spectacle, a dizzying, overwhelming display that made Agenda’s perpetual twilight feel like a poorly kept secret.

Kelly lay beside me, her small body a warm weight against my side. I’d expected her to be afraid, a shivering bundle of nerves. But she was… calm. Surprisingly so. Her eyes, wide and dark, tracked the celestial river of the Milky Way, her breath soft and even. It was as if she’d been born for this, for the silent communion with the cosmos.