I first heard the stars when I was eight years old. It was a warm summer night when the air smelled like rain, and I could hear crickets outside my window. I was sitting by the old telescope my grandfather had given me, looking up at the night sky. It was an old, rusty telescope with cracks in the lenses, but I loved it. That night, something strange happened. The stars were no longer silent. They were singing. It was not any song I had ever heard. It was soft and far away, like whispers carried by the wind. At first, I thought it was just my imagination, but as I closed my eyes, it became clearer. Each star made its own sound, soft as if they were speaking to one another. I ran to tell my parents. “The stars are singing!” I said, feeling happy. My mom laughed. “It's probably the wind,” she said, gently touching my head. “You must be dreaming,” my dad said with a smile. But I knew I was not dreaming. That night onwards, I couldn't help but listen. Each night, I sat by my window, gazing out at the sky, letting the songs of the stars fill my ears. And over time, I noticed patterns: sounds that seemed to fit the movements of the stars. It felt as if they were trying to communicate with me and that no one else could hear it. At the age of twelve, I became obsessed with something. I drew stars in the air and tried to link them with music. I filled notebooks with strange shapes and sounds, trying to understand what they were. My friends started to think I was weird. Even my parents started feeling concerned. “You look out the window for too long,” my mom said one evening. “Why don't you go outside and play?” But how could I tell her that the stars were speaking to me? How could I say this to anyone? Then, one night, everything was different. It was after midnight, and the house was silent. I was in my usual place by the window when suddenly, the music from the stars got louder. It wasn't soft and far away anymore; it was strong, as if it was calling me. Then, I saw it. One star, brighter than the others, began to blink. Its light flashed with the music. My heart started beating fast. It felt like the star was alive, like it was trying to connect with me. I took my notebook and began to draw. I drew the star and the shapes it seemed to make in the sky. My hand moved quickly, as if it already knew what to do. When I finished, I looked at the page. It was not a drawing; it was a map. The following day, I couldn't think of anything else. I kept looking at the notebook in school, my fingers tracing the lines again and again, until it was time for school to end. By the time school was over, I had made up my mind. That night, with a flashlight and my notebook, I followed the map. It took me through the forest at the edge of town. The air smelled like damp leaves, and the trees were tall and dark, like quiet protectors. But I wasn't scared. The stars were leading me. I continued into the woods until I reached a clearing. In the middle of it was a big oak tree; its branches went way up in the air. At the bottom of it, though, I could see something very unusual. A door. It was small, just big enough for me to go through, and it was cut into the tree. All around the edges of the door were shining symbols, like the ones in my notebook. My hands were trembling as I opened the door. Inside, there was a staircase curving down into the earth. The music of the stars was very loud now, like it was pulling me in. I don't know how long I climbed. Was it minutes or hours? Time felt weird. When I got to the bottom, I found myself in a big, bright room. In the center of the room stood a figure. It wasn't a person—not really. It glowed like moonlight, and its body moved like smoke. Its eyes, if they were eyes, shined like little stars. “Welcome, Listener,” it said, its voice soft and echoing. “Who. who are you?” I asked, my voice shaking. “We are the Echo,” it answered. “The voice of the stars, the memory of the universe. You are one of the few who can hear us.” “Why me?” I asked. “Because you listen,” it said plainly. The Echo shared stories with me—about stars that were born and stars that died, about lost worlds and hidden secrets. It explained the music I had heard and the shapes I had made. “You are a Keeper now,” it said, putting a glowing hand on my heart. “Protect the stories of the stars and share them when the world is ready.” When I climbed back to the top, the first light of morning was shining through the trees. The stars had stopped singing, but I didn't feel sad. Their music was still with me, quietly humming in my heart. I never told anybody what happened that night. Not my parents, not my friends. But I kept listening, kept drawing, and kept writing. And sometimes, when it is really quiet, I hear the stars again. They remind me of the stories I was meant to keep.