The city never slept. Neon lights blinked like restless stars, and cars hummed their endless lullaby through narrow streets. But to Aisha, the world always felt too loud — as if it was trying to drown something inside her that refused to fade.
Every night, when the world quieted just enough, she'd sneak to her rooftop, barefoot and silent, and watch the sky. It wasn't the stars that held her — it was the strange shimmer that sometimes rippled between them. It was faint, a glimmer that made the air breathe, the clouds pulse softly as if alive.
Her grandmother used to tell her, "The sky hides doors for those who remember how to look."
She used to laugh at that. But after her grandmother died, Aisha began to see things she couldn't explain — shapes moving in reflections, whispers curling through moonlight.
And one night, the moon broke open.
