The night was cold, and the temple fires burned low. Beyond the walls, pilgrims gathered close to the flames, huddled against the wind. Among them sat a mother and her small daughter.
The child trembled beneath her woolen shawl. "Mama," she whispered, "why did the sky break?"
The mother pulled her close, brushing ash from her hair. "Listen carefully, little flame," she said. "This is the story our hearts remember, even when the stars forget."
She pointed toward the twin torches burning at the temple gate—one gold, one dark. Their flames danced against the night, entwining like living things.
The Mother's Tale
"Long before we were born," she began softly, "before rivers had names and stars found their places, there were two siblings.
One was Day, with hair made of sunlight and laughter that made flowers bloom. The other was Silence, cloaked in night, who spoke with no tongue but made the stars tremble when she breathed.
They were born side by side at the edge of the world, where light meets shadow. For a time, they danced together. Day would paint the sky in gold, and Silence would brush it with stars when he grew tired. They loved each other, for they were two halves of the same song."
The child's eyes widened. "Were they happy?"
The mother nodded slowly. "For a time. But their hearts were curious. They looked beyond their edge and saw a world waiting—sleeping, waiting to awaken.
Day said, 'Let me wake them with light.'
Silence said, 'Let me wake them with quiet.'
Neither was wrong. But they both reached out at once… and when their hands met—"
She pressed her palms together, then pulled them apart slowly.
"The sky split."
The fire crackled as if to echo the moment.
"From that tear, rivers of gold poured down. Shadows bled like ink across the stars. The world shook, and everything changed.
Day looked at what they had done and wept. Silence said nothing, but the stars dimmed with her sorrow.
They retreated to the edge again, watching what their touch had awakened.
And down here, we saw two fires in the sky. And we remembered."
The child whispered, "Will they ever touch again?"
The mother kissed her forehead. "If they do, little flame, may we be ready to hold the sky."
That night, as the fires dwindled and the valley grew quiet, I drifted into sleep inside the half-built sanctuary.
And I dreamed.
Erynd's Dream
The sky above me was split, a wound across eternity. Through it shone two colossal figures: one radiant, wrapped in endless dawn; the other silent, woven from stars and mist.
They stood on opposite shores of a great celestial river, reaching toward each other.
Between them stretched a bridge made of fragile, flickering flame.
I saw mortals below—tiny, flickering lives, raising their hands toward both figures. Some built towers of light. Others built silent sanctuaries. Some turned their backs, afraid.
The bridge cracked. A low sound like a heartbeat filled the sky.
Day's light flared, desperate. Silence breathed, steady. The flames between them surged and split again—just as before.
But this time, something new appeared in the wound: Kaelíth.
He emerged not as a man or god, but as a silhouette made of both light and shadow, towering above the celestial river. His crown blazed and bled. He raised one hand, not to mend the bridge, but to weave the fracture into shape.
The wound didn't close. It became a gate.
The two siblings stood before it, watching him in silence. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, they looked not like gods, but like children who had broken something beautiful.
And Kaelíth whispered—so softly it shook the stars:
"One day, you will touch again. And when you do… the world will remember."
I woke with tears on my face.
The sanctuary was empty, the fires outside nearly dead. But the runes on the walls glowed faintly—gold and silver intertwined.
The mother's story was simple. Mine was not. But they were the same truth, folded in two different tongues.
I stepped outside and looked at the sky. The stars burned quietly. Somewhere beyond, two siblings watched through the veil.
And I knew this: the next time they reached for each other, nothing would be the same.