Asha’s trembling hand slowly lowered the pen.
The words remained there beneath the weak oil lamp, motionless and heavy against the paper.
“But I don’t know the truth.” She stared at the sentence silently.
The storm outside continued hammering the wooden house without mercy, making the walls creak softly beneath the endless pressure of snow and wind.
For several seconds, Asha did not move at all.
Then she leaned back slowly in her chair and rubbed one tired hand across her face.
Her eyes burned from exhaustion.
Not physical exhaustion alone.
Mental exhaustion.
The kind that came from spending too many nights unable to sleep while wondering whether everyone around you feared you for a reason.
The lamp flickered again.
Its weak orange light spread across the cluttered table in front of her.
Sheets of paper.
Small tools.
Dust-covered books.
And photographs.
Asha’s eyes shifted toward them immediately.
Several star photographs had been scattered carelessly across the edge of the table without her noticing earlier.
Some had nearly slid onto the floor.
Others overlapped one another beneath notebooks and loose papers.
Asha blinked softly.
Then sighed.
“…Right.” She reached toward the photographs carefully.
One by one, she began straightening them into neat rows across the table.
The images showed dark skies filled with stars.
Constellations.
Long trails of light cutting across frozen night horizons.
The photographs were imperfect.
Some slightly blurred.
Others damaged near the corners from cold or moisture.
But every single one had been handled carefully.
Like treasures.
Asha adjusted the final photograph gently before leaning back again.
For the first time in several minutes— a faint smile appeared on her face.
Small.
Tired.
But real.
“Oh…” Her voice was quiet beneath the storm.
“I spent the entire night taking all of these…” She picked up one photograph showing a cluster of bright stars above a frozen mountain ridge.
Her eyes softened slightly while looking at it.
The rest of the world often felt gray.
Cold.
Heavy.
But the stars— the stars always looked untouched by everything happening below them.
Asha lowered the photograph slowly.
Then sighed again.
This time deeper.
“I hope someday…” Her voice hesitated slightly.
“…I can share these pictures with someone I love.” Silence followed immediately after the words left her mouth.
Asha froze.
Then her face tightened with embarrassment.
“What am I even thinking about…?” She quickly placed the photograph back onto the table.
“I seriously feel lonely enough to start imagining stupid things now.” The storm outside roared louder as if swallowing her words.
Asha crossed her arms against the cold and leaned forward again.
“…Love is probably for idiots anyway.” Despite her words, the loneliness remained visible in her eyes.
The room felt painfully empty around her.
No voices.
No laughter.
Only wind and silence.
For a brief moment, she simply sat there listening to the storm hit the house while the photographs rested quietly beneath the oil lamp.
Then her expression slowly changed again.
The softness disappeared.
The fear returned.
Her eyes drifted back toward the frozen window.
Toward the village outside.
Toward the people who had begun watching her differently.
Asha remembered the whispers.
The suspicious looks.
Doors quietly closing when she walked past.
Children being pulled away by nervous parents.
The distance growing larger every day.
Her chest tightened slightly.
She lowered her gaze again and grabbed the pen once more.
The scratching sound returned to the quiet room.
Her breathing became heavier now.
More serious.
More resigned.
Slowly— she wrote: “That’s why I’m leaving.” The sentence looked final even before she finished writing it.
Asha stared at the words for a long moment.
The wind outside slammed violently against the walls hard enough to shake loose frost from the ceiling beams.
Still— she kept writing.
“If I stay here… someone will die.” This time her hand remained steady.
Not because she was calm.
Because she had already accepted the possibility.
Her eyes lowered slightly while reading the sentence again.
Then she whispered quietly to herself, “Maybe it should just be me.” But she never wrote those words down.
Instead, she stared silently at the paper while the storm outside continued burying the world beneath endless white.