Erklärus couldn’t sleep.
He never could – not because he had nightmares, but because he had questions. Always. Far too many questions for a single night.
He lay on his back, staring through his skylight into the black November sky – and counted stars. Not to get tired, but because he wanted to know: How many are really up there?
“One… two… three…” he murmured.
Then – just after midnight – there was a knock at the window. Not loud. More like someone knocking politely and hoping that somebody would open up.
Erklärus opened the window. On the windowsill sat a little star – about the size of an apricot, warm and golden, and trembling a little. Like someone who has travelled a long way and doesn’t know whether they are welcome.
Erklärus blinked. He took off his glasses, cleaned them carefully and put them back on. The star was still there.
That was fair, thought Erklärus. He fetched his notebook and wrote on the first page: