By: David Anson Lee.

I inventory the stars every night, because they keep going missing. My telescope shows gaps where light once argued with darkness.

The government says it’s atmospheric error. My neighbor says angels. I say theft.

Tonight, a shape unlatches the sky and folds a constellation like cloth. Gravity hiccups.

A voice asks politely if anyone will miss it.

I think of sailors, myths, childhood wishes. “Yes,” I say.

The shape pauses, embarrassed, and stitches Orion back in place.

Tomorrow, the stars burn brighter, as if relieved.

I keep counting.

Because someone has to notice when the universe misplaces its miracles. Again.

© 2026. David Anson Lee

David Anson Lee writes from the borderlands between medicine and myth. His work explores ghosts, quiet wonders, and the strange logic of being human.

Posted June 10, 2026.