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| Photo by Gabriel Zaparolli from Pexels |
There once was a woman who lived in a quiet village where the sky was always grey. One day, a lightning struck her roof — not once, but three times. It burned her attic and shattered her sleep.
Afterward, she saw things differently.
While others walked with eyes to the ground, she began to notice strange patterns in the clouds, the way the stars blinked in Morse code, and how the wind sometimes whispered names she hadn’t said in years.
The villagers told her she was imagining things. That lightning scrambles the mind.
But secretly, the woman built a telescope — not to see faraway stars, but to study the patterns within herself.
She discovered that the lightning hadn’t broken her. It had opened her.
She saw constellations in memory. She mapped galaxies of meaning in her grief. And with time, she taught others how to use their own telescopes too — not to escape reality, but to understand it more deeply.
Some nights, she still felt the ache of the lightning. But she no longer feared the storm. She knew now: it had shown her the stars.
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