The wind, wreathed in elusive perfume, flows past my windowsill. It’s not cold at all, but rather tender. The familiar breeze whispers to me; it tells me of the colossal night sky, so empty yet so full.

Outside the window, yellow flowers sing in unison—a respite from the constant screams. I dare not pay attention to their parched petals, spiraling down to the bone-dry earth.

From my wound I dig out a star with pulsing veins, a shining fragment of me. I wipe off its blood on my sleeve, and suddenly it looks identical to the stars outside, only brighter. 

Unconsciously I hold out my arm, and my star floats away from me. Looking away, I know that I shouldn’t follow it with my eyes. The flowers stop singing, and a part of me thinks that they’re cowards, just like me. I look up again.

The sky, now an unsettling red, stares back at me. Thousands of stars are blinking so hurriedly that it makes me dizzy. I have no choice but to close my eyes, and forfeit any last chance of mercy.

Through my closed eyelids, I can still see the brightest star. It never blinks, despite how desperate I am to break eye contact for even a millisecond.

I lose consciousness in the vast silence, falling into Mother’s arms. Mayday, mayday… Blankets of guilt weigh upon me, and I feel so desolate. I wish to hear the flowers’ song surround me one last time; I wish for the cachet to rain down amidst our drought.

Whose burden, if not ours, are the stars? An arquebus spins in my hand, my right hand, and falls down to the earth. Whose burden, if not ours, is the earth? A bloodied flag spins in my hand, my left hand, and fades away to the stars.