I was seven when my grandfather first showed me the stars.

I remember sitting beside him on the rooftop, swinging my little legs while staring at the strange telescope he'd brought outside.

“Grandpa, what does that do?” I asked

He laughed softly. “It lets you see things that are very, very far away.”

“Like airplanes?”

“Much farther.”

“Birds?”

“Farther.”

I thought for a moment. “...The Moon?”

He smiled. “Exactly.” He adjusted the telescope and helped me look through it.

The moment I saw the Moon, my eyes went wide. “Whoa...!”

I could see the craters on its surface. It looked completely different from the little white circle I'd always seen in the sky.

“Those are craters,” Grandpa explained.

“Craters?”

“Mhm. They've been there for millions of years.”

“Millions?!”

I remember looking at him in complete disbelief.

He laughed.

“There are things in the sky older than you, me, and everyone we've ever known.”

I looked back through the telescope. Suddenly, the sky didn't feel empty anymore.

It felt enormous.

Mysterious.

Beautiful.

I started pointing at everything. “What about that one?”

“A star.”

“And that?”

“Another star.”

“Does that one have a name?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know all of their names?”

Grandpa chuckled. “I'm afraid I don't.”

I crossed my arms. “Then I'll learn them.”

He smiled. “I believe you will.”

And I did.

After that night, I couldn't stop thinking about the stars. I started reading every book I could find about astronomy. I memorized constellations, learned about planets, and filled notebooks with little drawings of the night sky. Whenever I discovered something interesting, Grandpa was the first person I'd tell.

“Grandpa! Did you know Saturn's rings are mostly made of ice and rock?”

“I did.”

“And Jupiter is enormous!”

“That, I also knew.”

“And there are stars much bigger than the Sun!”

He smiled. “You've been reading again.”

I grinned. “I have more!”

“Then tell me everything.” So I did.

I never got tired of telling him. Then he got sick. At first, I didn't understand how serious it was. I thought he'd get better eventually. One afternoon, I sat beside his bed with an astronomy book in my hands.

“Grandpa?”

He slowly opened his eyes. “Hmm?”

“I found something interesting.”

“Oh?”

“It says some of the stars we see might not even exist anymore.”

He smiled faintly. “That's right. Their light can take an incredibly long time to reach us.”

I stared at the page. “So even if a star disappears... we can still see it?”

“For a while.”

I thought about that. “That's sad.”

Grandpa was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Maybe. But there's something beautiful about it, too.”

“What?”

“Sometimes, something can be gone... and still leave a little light behind.”

I didn't understand what he meant.

Not then.

I wish I had.

Not long after that, my grandfather passed away because of his illness. And suddenly, everything became quiet. The telescope stayed untouched. His old star charts remained on the shelf.

And I stopped talking about the stars. I stopped asking questions. I stopped running to people whenever I discovered something exciting.

I just... became quiet. People would ask me if I was okay. I'd always say the same thing.

“I'm fine.”

I wasn't.

I just didn't know how to say that I missed him. So I buried myself in books. Astronomy books. Physics books. Books about planets, galaxies, black holes, and everything beyond our world.

I'd spend hours reading until I was too tired to think. At first, I thought I was just distracting myself. But eventually, I realized something. Every book about the stars reminded me of Grandpa.

And somehow... that made the loneliness easier to bear. Years passed. I became more knowledgeable. More reserved. More comfortable talking to books than people. But I never stopped looking at the sky.

One night, I found the old star chart Grandpa had given me. I unfolded it carefully. I traced my finger over the constellations.

“...You really knew all these?”

I smiled sadly.

“I still have so much to learn.”

I carried the telescope outside. Then I looked up. The stars were still there. The same stars he'd shown me when I was seven. For a moment, I could almost hear his voice again.

I believe you will.

I smiled.

“...I did it, Grandpa.”

And that's when I finally understood what he meant. Maybe people can disappear. Maybe memories can fade. But sometimes, they leave a little light behind.