8 p.m. - darkness has settled, and the streets lay empty, no one in sight. I was on my way to a business trip, walking briskly through the quiet night.
Suddenly, in the stillness, a voice
called out:
‘Excuse me, please!’
A German woman, around 78 years old,
stood before me - elegant, dressed in black, her face lined with deep wrinkles.
She glanced at me, then
lifted her gaze to the sky. In a voice both gentle and deliberate, she asked:
‘Do you know about the stars?’
It was rare to see anyone on the street at that hour, rarer still to hear a voice in the quiet. I do not usually stop in the darkness, but something about her invited trust.
I was in a hurry, rushing to catch
my train, yet out of politeness, I paused and followed her gaze. The sky
stretched vast and clear, the stars shining - too many to count.
‘Unfortunately, not.’ I admitted (I’ve
never really paid attention to stars. Even now.).
She smiled gently, her expression a blend of worry and curiosity. Her eyes lingered on the sky as if searching for something only she could see.
‘Tonight, they are different. Mysterious.’
At the time, I did not grasp the weight of her words.
But looking back now, it wasn’t the stars that felt mysterious, nor the woman herself. It was the entire encounter, the quiet street, the whispered question, the stars above, and the silent unfolding that followed, leaving behind a stillness.
In hindsight, it was a whisper of a warning, too soft to hear, and I was not awake enough to the world to grasp it, until with quiet sadness, it was too late.
Now, the universe may remain as mysterious as it likes; its secrets no longer matter to me.
