"The stars are just pinholes in the curtain of night," she whispered, tracing constellations on the sleepy sky.
Heard it from the woman at the diner, said something about a cosmic alignment last Tuesday.
"Yeah, and the coffee's always better under those stars," replied the old man, stirring his cup with a thoughtful sigh.
There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by the sound of rain against the window. The stars shone through, unseen yet profoundly felt.
"Do you believe in the stars' promises?" he asked, gazing into an empty sky.
"Promises made and broken," she nodded, "but only to those who dare to listen."