The night sky over the Philippine countryside was a cathedral of light. A billion stars blazed in the void, their brilliance undimmed by the smog and neon of the city. The Milky Way sprawled overhead like a river of diamonds, its current flowing through constellations older than human language. Orion stood eternal, his belt gleaming, while Cassiopeia reclined in her throne of stars. Fireflies drifted lazily in the tall grass, their glow mimicking the heavens, and the air hummed with the whispers of cicadas. It was a night so vast, so achingly beautiful, it made the universe feel both infinite and intimate—a secret shared between father and son.

The boy lay on a frayed picnic blanket, his small fingers clutching a thermos of tsokolate, its warmth seeping into his palms. His father sat beside him, a silhouette against the cosmos, pointing to a flickering star near the horizon. “That one’s Vega,” he said, his voice low with reverence. “Twenty-five lightyears away. The light you’re seeing left that star when you were just a baby.”

The boy squinted. “Is it still there now?”

His father laughed, a sound as warm as the chocolate in the boy’s hands. “Maybe. Maybe not. Stars die, anak. But their light keeps traveling, even after they’re gone. Like… like stories.”

“But what’s the point?” the boy pressed, his brow furrowing. “If it’s already dead, why does it matter?”

His father turned to him, the starlight catching the smile lines around his eyes. “Because the light’s still here, isn’t it? It’s still showing us something. Even if Vega’s gone, it gave us this.” He gestured to the sky. “Maybe the universe isn’t about lasting forever. Maybe it’s about leaving something beautiful behind.”

The boy frowned, unsatisfied. “But when we die, we don’t leave light. We just… disappear.”

For a moment, his father was quiet. Then he ruffled the boy’s hair. “We leave stories. Memories. Love. That’s our light.”

The boy opened his mouth to argue, but a meteor streaked across the sky—a fleeting scratch of gold. His father grinned. “Make a wish!”

The boy closed his eyes. “I wish I could understand.”

The alarm blared the theme song to 2001: A Space Odyssey, a choice that had seemed clever at the time but now felt like a cosmic joke. He groaned, slapping the snooze button with the precision of someone who had done it a thousand times before. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, and wondered if Carl Sagan ever hit snooze. Probably not. Sagan had that whole “billions and billions of stars” thing going for him. This guy? He had spreadsheets.

He dragged himself out of bed, threw on a wrinkled shirt, and stumbled into the kitchen. The coffee machine sputtered like it was on its last legs, which was fitting because so was he. As he waited for the caffeine to drip, he opened his phone and scrolled through his emails. Another grant rejection. “We regret to inform you that your proposal on black hole thermodynamics does not align with our current funding priorities.” He sighed. Machiavelli once said, “It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.” He wondered if Machiavelli had ever tried to get funding for astrophysics research. Probably not. Machiavelli would’ve just taken the money.

The office was a fluorescent-lit purgatory, filled with the hum of computers and the occasional burst of laughter from the break room. He sat at his desk, staring at a spreadsheet that refused to make sense. His coworker, Mina, leaned over his shoulder. “Still working on that black hole data?”

“Yeah,” he said, not looking up. “Trying to figure out why the numbers don’t add up.”

Mina grinned. “Maybe the black hole ate them.”

He chuckled, but it was hollow. Mina was one of the few people in the office who didn’t treat him like a walking calculator. She had a knack for making even the most tedious work feel bearable. She was also, objectively, the most attractive person he’d ever met—smart, funny, and effortlessly kind. He’d thought about asking her out more times than he could count, but every time, he chickened out. What if she said no? What if it made things awkward? Better to stay in his lane.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Lunch was a sad pancit from the street vendor outside the office. He sat on a bench, watching the world go by. A scrawny cat with matted fur approached him, meowing softly. It looked up at him with big, pleading eyes, clearly hoping for a scrap of food. He hesitated, then shook his head. “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered, turning away. The cat lingered for a moment before slinking off into the shadows.

He felt a pang of guilt but quickly pushed it aside. What was one cat in a city full of strays? Still, the image of those pleading eyes stayed with him. Richard Feynman once said, “The first principle is that you must not fool yourself—and you are the easiest person to fool.” He thought about that a lot. Mostly because he was pretty sure he’d been fooling himself into thinking his inaction didn’t matter. Spoiler alert: it did.

The afternoon was a blur of missed opportunities. His boss, Dr. Reyes, stopped by his desk to ask if he’d finished the report on the telescope’s calibration. He hadn’t. “It’s almost done,” he lied, avoiding her gaze. Dr. Reyes sighed and walked away, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor. What did it matter? The report would get done eventually. Or it wouldn’t. The universe would keep spinning either way.

Later, he overheard a group of interns discussing a new project. They were excited, their voices filled with the kind of passion he hadn’t felt in years. He thought about joining the conversation, maybe offering some advice, but then he remembered the last time he’d tried to mentor someone. It hadn’t gone well. He’d been too cynical, too jaded. Better to let things be.

By the time he left the office, the sun was setting. The sky was a swirl of oranges and purples, the kind of sunset that made you stop and think, “Wow, the universe is beautiful.” Then you remembered you were standing in a parking lot next to a dumpster, and the moment passed.

He was walking home through the labyrinth of Manila’s back alleys. You know the ones—narrow, dimly lit, with walls covered in graffiti and the occasional stray cat darting into the shadows. The air smelled like taho and exhaust fumes, and the distant hum of traffic was a constant background noise. It was the kind of place where you kept your head down and your pace quick, unless you were looking for trouble.

That’s when he saw them. A group of guys, loud and obnoxious, crowding around a young woman. She looked scared, her back pressed against a wall. One of them grabbed her arm, and she tried to pull away. His first instinct was to keep walking. He wasn’t a hero. He was just a guy who knew too much about quasars and not enough about self-defense. But then he heard her voice, shaky but defiant: “Leave me alone.”

He stopped. His brain started running through all the reasons he shouldn’t get involved. “It’s not your problem.” “You’ll just make it worse.” “What if they have a knife?” But then he thought about all the times he’d done nothing. All the times he’d been a cog in the machine, turning and turning but never really doing anything. And he realized something: he didn’t want to be a cog anymore.

As he hesitated, the memory of that night under the stars flashed through his mind. His father’s voice, warm and steady: “Maybe the universe isn’t about lasting forever. Maybe it’s about leaving something beautiful behind.”

He rolled his eyes internally. “Great, Dad. Real poetic. Meanwhile, I’m about to get my ass kicked in a back alley. But fine, okay. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about lasting forever. Maybe it’s about doing something that matters, even if it’s small. Even if it’s stupid.”

He didn’t plan to die. That wasn’t part of the deal. He’d already dialed the emergency number on his phone, the call waiting to be connected. His plan was simple: throw his bag at them, create a distraction, and buy the woman enough time to run. Then he’d bolt in the opposite direction. Easy. Clean. No one had to get hurt.

He took a deep breath, tightened his grip on his bag, and stepped forward. “Hey!” he shouted, his voice louder than he expected. The guys turned to look at him. One of them smirked. “Mind your own business, buddy.”

He didn’t give them time to react. He hurled his bag at the closest guy, the weight of his laptop and books catching the man square in the face. The woman took the opportunity to slip away, her footsteps echoing down the alley.

For a moment, it seemed like his plan might work. The men were stunned, cursing and scrambling to recover. He turned to run, adrenaline surging through him.

But then he heard it—a sharp, deafening crack. Pain exploded in his side, hot and searing. He stumbled, his legs giving out beneath him. The pavement was cold against his skin, and the world tilted sideways.

“Oh,” he thought, distantly surprised. “They had a gun.”

The last thing he saw was the young woman disappearing around the corner, her face a mix of fear and gratitude. And then… nothing.