When the night fell, Sati wished on the first star he found twinkling in the sky. I had to stop myself from explaining that each of those stars was a sun to another planet, a citizen assigned to burn themself to become a source of heat that will give life to the residents of the celestial body they came from, and a guiding light to travelers journeying through the darkness of space. I fear Sati might consider being the next sun. I did not make him bright only to watch him leave.

When he saw a meteor, he immediately closed his eyes and made a wish. I let him believe I wish on them because I don’t think I can explain that I’m actually warning my fellow travelers, not to mention why I have to. In fact, if there’s anyone who can surpass, or at least, equate suns, it would be us — trained to be strong and bright, to go far and reach any destination we intend to arrive at. We weren’t molded to stand by in the middle of nowhere.

But that doesn’t mean we’re closer or headed to our maker or our goddess.

We may have been prepared to share the gift of knowledge to those who wish to learn on the planet we will serve, but we cannot give gifts based on what they pray for. If there’s one thing we just cannot carry, it’s the weight of wishes we cannot grant.

When morning came, we gaily gathered dust. Every bit of stardust came from each sun who wished to provide light and life even after death; from stars that wanted to leave remnants as they departed from this world. When Sati found dust that stubbornly won’t go into the dustpan, he eagerly grabbed it. Then, he blew it upward instead of forcing it down with the rest of the pile, probably hoping it would deliver his wishes to some god above.

He picked up my habits, but he still hasn’t learned how to choose a sliver of a dead star.

It just drifted back down in my direction.

Another truth he hasn’t learned is that the wind can’t blow stardust to the paradise of the gods; it can only reach as far as the eye can see.

Then again, it’s not like I ever told him that the slivers I send contain messages to the planet I came from. He doesn’t /need/ to know. Gods forbid he thinks the messages I get back come from angels.

When we reached the bridge on our way home, I gave back the sliver he dropped, and he deposited it into the river, believing some deities live there. The sliver probably still holds the same wish he whispered earlier. I hope the citizens hiding in the lake, hiding from the sun, accept this donation and ignore the message.

“Mira, don’t you have anything to ask from the river spirits?” Sati asked.

/Forgiveness./

No matter how many times he asks me, I cannot give him a concrete answer.

“You don’t drop stardust into the river like you used to,” he adds.

I can’t afford to ruin his image of me. Besides, I’m not to blame for my family’s mistakes anyway.

“Just keep doing what I taught you, Sati.”

Maybe this way — if I can get generations to do good even if the foundation is made of lies — the victims will finally forgive my father’s errors.

Or at least, the Apolaki will.