The Starborn Voyager

On the Shore of Forgotten Hours, where trees grew roots into the stars, she waited. The galleon had sailed into her dreams for years—its gold-trimmed hull cutting through galaxies disguised as waves. The townsfolk called it The Starborn, a vessel said to carry those who’d traded their shadows for compasses. Her fingers grazed the swirling bark of the shore’s sentinel tree; it hummed a chord that made the constellations tremble. Tonight, the ship’s sails billowed with solar winds, its prow aimed at the rift between almost and away. Salt stung her lips. The horizon blurred. She knew the truth now: the galleon wasn’t sailing toward her. It was sailing from her—a reflection in the cosmos’ mirror, forever receding. The tree’s golden leaves sighed. Some departures, they murmured, are not for following.