The night my grandfather died, the stars fell from the sky. At least, that's how it felt when I found his body cold in his observatory, his ancient hands still clutching his favorite star chart. The teacup beside him held the dregs of his evening jasmine tea, gone cold like his flesh. The queen mother spent two full years turning over every stone in the elven realms, interrogating servants and scholars alike, but found nothing - as if Death itself had slipped in wearing velvet slippers and spirited him away without a trace.
The loss carved a hole in my chest that never quite healed. Grandfather had been my compass, the one who understood the storm that raged beneath my carefully cultivated calm. Without him, I became a ship adrift in treacherous waters, my only lodestar the memory of golden eyes and a laugh like wind chimes.
