Dark Night Suffused with Stars

DARK NIGHT SUFFUSED WITH STARS

by Huijia Li

(Content warnings: reference to climate collapse, language death)

Yingg decided to skip dinner to call her parents. 

She cut through B-Ark’s separated dining hall for translators, heading straight for its southern exit—the fastest route to her rest pod. They were serving Thai-style mock fish today with a side of rather spritely greens. Perhaps the bots had gotten the greenhouse working again. Yingg pursed her lips. She had not eaten a crisp leaf in weeks. Too bad. She only had fifteen minutes of transmission time left.

Alann made a face as he caught her leaving. “Late? Again?” he mouthed. He was sitting amongst his fellow Southeast Asian translators, idly scraping spices off his now white fillet.

“Call,” Yingg mouthed back, catching the nutrient pack he tossed her. She waved as she slipped through the doors—fisted palm bursting open and closed like a blinking star. The UnivLL gesture for thank you and goodbye.

•••

By the time Yingg reached her room, the transmission window had shrunk to ten minutes. She hit the connect button before sinking into her chair, tearing the seal off her nutrient pack and chugging down its contents. It tasted like nothing. Flavour didn’t matter as long as it kept her alive. Though her mother would expect the food to be better on B-Ark—she was a wonderful cook, even with Earth’s limited produce after the climate catastrophe.

Call connected. 

Her parents appeared on the screen. Yingg leaned towards the projection. “Ba. Ma.” 

“Yíng ah. Chī bǎo lè mā?” Her mother’s smiling face hung for a second before the connection resumed. Video calls got harder the further B-Ark got from Earth. Soon, they would be limited to voice calls until they reached the next Waystation, where signals could be boosted.

Yingg set her empty nutrient pack at a corner of the table, carefully making sure it was out of sight. “Chī bǎo—”

“Wait,” her father interrupted. “How long till your next Dreamscope?” He spoke in fluent UnivLL, though it was touched with a slight accent. 

“In two weeks.”

 Her parents exchanged a glance. 

“Then we speak UnivLL,” her mother said. “No mixing languages.”

Her father nodded. “You must ensure your LangPure score stays above 80.” 

“My LangPure score is 92. I have plenty of leeway before they kick me out.”

“Don’t risk it,” her mother said softly. “The longer you work with Chinese, the more likely your score might slip. You scored 95 when you left.”

Yingg’s jaw tightened. Everyone spoke UnivLL on B-Ark—even the translators. Especially the translators, engaged to preserve Earth’s best works for monolingual New Gaians. One language. One culture. A new beginning built upon mutual understanding. “Fine. Until I clear the Dreamscope.”

Relief bloomed on her parents’ faces. A warning beep sounded, indicating the last five minutes of the transmission.

Her mother sighed. “So fast? We’ve just started.”

“Sorry,” Yingg spoke faster. “I was finalising the Shījīng translation. Submission deadline was today.”

“The Book of Songs? Your ba courted me with lines from that book.”

“And he succeeded?” Yingg chuckled. “I thought you were the practical one in our family.”

Her father laughed, wrapping an arm around her mother’s thin shoulders. “I was lucky. It worked.” Brightness stained his gaze, as if he was recalling a gilded memory. “I used to recite poetry to you too.”

Yingg smiled, ignoring the sudden twist in her gut. “I know. You always said it made me fall asleep so much faster.”

•••

The translation pods were located at the far end of the Translator’s Wing—a secluded part of the ship reserved for linguistic work. Yingg disabled her pod’s virtual interior the moment she entered, exhaling slowly as the walls blinked blank. Unlike those who found comfort in B-Ark’s experimental simulations, she preferred the reality of clinical white walls. Knowing her boundaries made her more efficient.

 Logging into her account, she found that B-Ark had already cleared her Shījīng translation and added it to the next resource update. The original had been archived, scheduled for permanent erasure in a year’s time. 

“Settler T2039B. Yingg Chen. Please choose your new project.”

A list of texts filled the screen. So many—too many—for her to complete in her lifetime. And yet, not nearly enough. Half the world’s books had been erased in the Resource Uprising; what they had left now were mere dregs. 

Yingg checked her completed tasks to date: twenty-eight books, almost four million words in three years. The target for translators was a million words a year—daunting, but achievable with B-Ark’s Consolidated UnivLL Translation System. She had focused on contemporary classics during her first two years onboard—running the Chinese text through CUTS before editing for accuracy and tone. She had worked faster then; less mired in the questions that plagued her now. 

Questions about source. Questions about loss.

“Please choose your new project.” The system prompted again.

A contemporary novel would be easier. Faster. It would ensure that she was always ahead of her deadline. Besides the LangPure score, productivity was another aspect New Gaia considered when reviewing citizenship requests.

“Poetry,” Yingg replied. 

“Source text?”

“Pull out texts across all ages. I will pick three hundred works.”

•••

“Date, settler ID, transmission code.” Alann raised his palm, fingers miming the numbers in quick succession as he counted them off. “Nine seconds!” He reset the timer with a smirk. “Your turn.”

“2537712. 2039. Three, zero, four, eight, three-two-six…” Yingg followed his example, but snagged at the end. Numbers were challenging. She remembered them fine. But she remembered them in Chinese. It always took her an extra second to convert them to UnivLL.

“Thirteen seconds.” Alann raised his brows. “You were faster last week.”

“I started a new project,” she admitted. “Didn’t practice.”

“I mean, thirteen seconds is decent, but what happened to your competitive streak?” Alann picked up his fork and started pushing the wilted leaves on his plate around. “What are you working on now?”

“Poetry,” she said.

“Again?” He speared a lettuce leaf and ensured it was free of dressing before putting it into his mouth. “I thought you’d pick something easier after your foray into the Shijing.”

Yingg shrugged. “Poems are shorter than novels.”

“So says the person who took half a year to translate thirty-nine thousand words of obsolete Chinese expressions—” Alann gave a mock grimace at the look she threw at him, then lifted his fork, swinging it around like a concert conductor. “Fine. Poetry. Odes. History. Whatever you say. But is it worth the trouble?” 

Yingg rolled her eyes. “So says the person translating cookbooks when half the world’s ingredients have gone extinct. Is that worth the trouble?” 

“I translate books on cookery. Not just recipe books. The ingredients might differ. The theory remains the same.” Alann set down his fork, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he continued more gently. “But in your case, UnivLL is the only language New Gaians will ever speak. Isn’t poetry crafted from words chosen at the intersection of meaning and cadence? If poetry is tied to form, and if such form is specific to its source language… How can it ever be translated accurately?”

Yingg stayed silent. She had often wondered the same thing. So much information could be packed in scant lines—personality and era, scene and sentiment. Context mattered. What would a shade of moonlight or a falling autumn leaf mean to New Gaians, if they were living on a moonless planet void of seasons? 

And then there was sound. UnivLL sounded nothing like Chinese. New Gaians would never know the tones and rhythms of her mother tongue… never hear the music present in its wordplay nor the harmony of its rhyming couplets. Would they even be reading the same poem when reading a translation? And if absolute fidelity was impossible… was it wrong that she still wanted to try?

“Alann,” she said finally, looking down at her plate. “You’re trilingual right? Do you ever miss speaking your other languages?” Her fork scraped the surface of a square tomato, drawing rivulets of bruises into garish yellow skin. She pressed harder, burying sharp tines into yielding flesh.

“Thai and English?” Alann shook his head. “My parents couldn’t speak each other’s language. I grew up speaking UnivLL at home.” He took her fork, wiped her tomato across the untouched dressing on his plate and handed it back to her. “But my sister only spoke Thai.”

Yingg ate the tomato. It was still bitter. “How come?”

“My folks split up after she was born. Joy was raised by my mom and my grandparents. I was in boarding school by then, UnivLL curriculum.”

“Where’s she now?”

“Earth. She’s a food scientist.” Alann chuckled. “Always harping about how she’d rather be a chef.”

“Mmm. A good cook then?”

“The best.” Alann pushed his half-eaten plate to her. “But really, anyone can cook better than those monkeys programming our meals.”

•••

A surprise awaited them at dinner the next day. Instead of the usual experimental offerings, there was apple curry and a leg of roast chicken. They even had wine and dessert—a green pudding in a heart-shaped bowl.

“What’s the occasion?” Yingg asked, sliding into the seat that Alann had saved for her. 

“Didn’t you get the memo?” For once, Alann was tucking into his food with barely a grimace. He chewed down a spoonful of curry, smacking his lips in satisfaction. “Wedding.”

“Who?” Yingg looked around. She knew there were couples amongst the translators, but she seldom mingled. Alann, who flitted easily between the different translator groups onboard, was the extrovert.

“Henrii and Megumii.” Alann nodded at the couple in front of the room. “French and Japanese translators. You just missed their speech. It was love at first sight. Or maybe, first speak.”

“Speak?” Yingg bit into her chicken. It was real chicken. At least, it really tasted like meat. She took another bite. 

“They fell in love debating the limited UnivLL lexicon for poultry. Apparently, they’re both fans of the bird.” 

“And thus, UnivLL brings people together.” Yingg stole another look at the couple. The groom brushed a thumb over his bride’s lips, then leaned over to whisper into her ear. “What do you think he’s saying to her?”

“Words of love, no doubt. Look at how she’s smiling.” Alann lifted his glass. “Chin-Chin!” he shouted. “Be happy! Great meal!”

Everyone raised their glasses, echoing his salutation. Yingg followed. They clinked glasses and downed their wine.

“Chin-Chin?” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that even UnivLL? Not afraid of lowering your LangPure score?”

“You’re asking me?” Alann tapped his glass. “My dad used to say it all the time. I believe its source was Chinese.”

Yingg shook her head. “No way. We say gān—” she stopped herself.

Alann smirked. “Anyway, it drove my mom nuts.”

“Chin-chin?”

“No, his constant drinking.” Alann’s eyes flitted back to his empty glass. “My dad loved to drink. Chin-chin was the last thing we said to each other before I left.” 

Yingg didn’t know what to say. The only thing that came to mind was a line from a Dù Mù poem, which seemed wholly inappropriate. 多情却似总无情，唯觉樽前笑不成 。Too much feeling leaves one cold. No smiles before our farewell toast. She started cutting her chicken into bite-sized pieces instead. 

Alann burst out laughing. “Don’t look so traumatized! Everyone’s entitled to a bout of nostalgia once in a while.” 

As she placed pieces of chicken one by one on Alann’s almost empty plate, Yingg offered him a weak smile. “Sure. Chinn chinn.” 

He gave her a long look. 

“What?” She glared at him. “You like chicken. I prefer curry.”

Alann did not argue. He scooped up the meat and dunked them into his curry. “Let’s play a game. Winner gets to eat this.”

Yingg frowned. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then lose.” He stirred his concoction with relish. “Don’t you want to know the rules?”

“I’m waiting.”

Alann nodded at the wedding couple. “Words of love. Maximum five words. Three second intervals. I’ll start: ‘Let’s share a chicken.’”

In the end, Yingg lost. Mainly because she was laughing so hard, she missed her turn. She watched Alann finish his meal as the lights dimmed and empty tables slid towards the walls, furniture folding into itself so that a space was cleared out. A languid UnivLL anthem spilled from invisible speakers. Slowly, people got up, started moving to music. Couples. Friends. Acquaintances.

“They’re reconfiguring this into a dance hall? And the system approved?”

“B-Ark probably wants to get our anxiety score down before the upcoming Dreamscope.” Alann took a deep breath. “Want to dive in?”

“No.” Yingg had never willingly partaken in a dance.

“Thank goodness.” Alann was visibly relieved. He tapped at his empty bowl. “Another round?”

Yingg shook her head. She turned, watching the dancers, trying to identify the lovers and the strangers. “Do you think they’re the same?” she asked. “The words they think with, and the words they feel with?” 

“Yes,” Alann said.

“What makes you so sure?” She thought of her parents. Of the words that so often came to her lips—words that had to be swallowed whole.

“Because settlers are only allowed to think in UnivLL. The Dreamscope will make sure of that.”

•••

Mondays always started with a B-Ark memo, delivered to everyone’s inbox. It listed the week’s major events and ended with a productivity ranking.

Yingg opened the mail, preparing to skip to the rankings. Her gaze stopped at the top.

DREAMSCOPE ON FRIDAY.

She scanned the rest of the memo, then closed it with a sigh. B-Ark would dock at the Waystation on Thursday. Dreamscopes were scheduled the very next night.

Yingg pulled out her project, staring at the multiple Chinese texts opened on her screen. Lín Bū…Lán Lán…Zhào Yě… She scrolled through a dozen tabs, pausing finally at a list of anonymous works—words that had been severed from their creator through the unforgiving passage of time. She had spent the past week sifting through poems without translating a single word, a decision that had caused her to place last in the weekly rankings.

Work was progressing very slowly. But everyone else’s word count had been below average last week. Productivity always dropped in the weeks leading up to a Dreamscope. Everyone was wary of the influence of another language on their LangPure score. No one wanted rogue vocabulary to pop up in their dreams.

Yingg knew she should take things easy this week. The more she wrestled with Chinese, the more likely it was to sink its claws into her mind. Some translators chose to stop working entirely in the days leading up to a Dreamscope, using the time to immerse themselves in UnivLL. A language reboot.

Two days, she thought. Finalise the first batch of poems to translate by Wednesday. Light reading. No hardcore translation. That would leave her with two days to reboot. 

Day one went well. Day two delivered a promising start, until she stalled at the Chinese character for her name. In a world where everything was in UnivLL, Yingg read Chinese better than she could write it.

盈 Yíng. She traced the strokes with a finger. Yingg had not written her Chinese name in years, but her hand began moving effortlessly—as if she was accessing a motor memory burned in her bones. 

“Why is my name so sad?” Yingg had asked her father once. They had just spent the past hour counting stars, and when she remained stubbornly awake, he had told her a story about the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl—star-crossed lovers separated by the vast Milky Way. Finally, he resorted to reciting lines of poetry that contained her name, beginning with a poem about the same ancient myth. 

Her father chuckled. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. It just sounds sad.” In truth, Yingg barely understood the words. But young as she was, she could pick out the melancholy in her father’s voice as he strung the lines together, weaving them into a spoken lullaby. Her brows knitted. “There was something about tears.”

A beat of silence passed before her father replied. “Yíng means excess. Your mother and I, we named you Yíng because you were the one good thing that tipped our lives back in balance. You’re our overflowing source of joy in this depleted world.” He stroked her forehead with a calloused thumb, smoothing out her frown. “How can your name be sad?”

Yíng. Surfeit. An overflowing of. 

On a whim, she called up all the poems containing that word and read them aloud —slowly, softly—savouring the sound of a forsaken shore upon her tongue. 

Once again, she was late for dinner.

•••

Thursday came and went.

B-Ark docked, but no one was allowed to disembark till their LangPure scores were refreshed. Dreamscopes allowed the system to monitor a participant’s subconscious language use and was compulsory in a LangPure assessment. Participants who performed poorly were quarantined and granted a re-scope a week later. Two failed scopes in a row would get them kicked out of the Settler Program. These dropouts were left at the Waystation. The only way they could continue on to New Gaia was to pass a re-scope, which only happened when a new ship docked. 

•••

On Friday night, Yingg took a pill to prolong her REM cycle, stuck two wireless probes to her temples, and got into bed.

“You know I love you, right?” Alann said lightly as he dumped a slice of neon orange pumpkin on her plate.

“Not as much as you love your nutrient packs.” Yingg ate the pumpkin anyway. Lab produce was the norm on B-Ark, part of a program which sought to develop food sources that would survive on New Gaia. 

Alann sucked out the last drops of his nutrient pack with a rude slurp. “This is disgusting.”

“So eat the real food,” Yingg said. Alann had plonked himself down at her table on their first day on B-Ark, taken one look at his plate, and decided to survive on nutrient packs while gifting her his uneaten meals. 

“Nah.” He watched her finish the pumpkin. “Sometimes, I almost believe you actually like these abominations.”

Yingg did not. But she had been brought up to abhor waste. Finishing her food had nothing to do with liking it. 

•••

Like.

The boy looked at her, a half-smile playing on his lips. He was four years older, with wheat-brown skin and close-cropped dark hair. It was their first date.

“You speak Chinese?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” Yingg said. “My parents know UnivLL. But they speak Chinese to each other.”

He nodded. “We can speak Chinese too, if you like. It can be our secret language.”

Yingg shook her head. “Let’s stick to UnivLL.”

Months later, when she had determined that she was fond enough of him to admit it out loud, ‘like’ didn’t seem to carry enough weight.

“Wǒ xǐ huān nǐ,” she said instead. ‘I like you.’ The same words, but in Chinese.

“I love you,” he had told her when they parted ways. He was leaving Earth, part of the first wave of settlers to New Gaia. “Take care of yourself.”

Yingg nodded. They exchanged messages for a while until communications tapered off.

“You’ll love your first sighting of Earth from space.” 

“I love receiving your texts.”

“With Love, Yingg.” 

It was always ‘love’. Never ‘aì’. To Yingg, the Chinese word for love seemed too grave for such lightweight sentiments. He had left, but there had not been a corresponding hole in her heart.

She did not know why she was dreaming of him when she had forgotten his name.

•••

“One hundred and seventy-six.” Yingg counted yet another star, then turned to her mother. “Why am I not asleep yet?”

“You need to close your eyes, silly.” Her mother’s palm fell across Yingg’s sight.

“But I want to see.” Yingg pushed her mother’s hand away. “Yī bǎi qī shí qī,” she said, pointing to a silver speck at the edge of her vision.

“One hundred and seventy-seven,” her mother said. “You lapsed into Chinese again.”

Yingg pouted. “It only happens when I count. Baba always counts in Chinese.” But she switched. “One hundred and seventy-eight.”

Her mother hugged her closer. “Good girl.”

It was a sweltering night. Her mother’s hot breath tickled, making Yingg squirm. She opened her mouth in protest, then closed it, silenced by the steel in her mother’s eyes.

Her mother lifted her gaze to the starry night. “I don’t regret letting you learn Chinese. But if you ever have to choose, you must choose UnivLL.”

“But what if you and baba forget UnivLL when you’re old? Like grandma?”

“Don’t worry. If things go as planned, you’ll be far away by the time your ba and I get to that age.”

“Away from you?” Yingg’s voice rose, caught between a whine and a cry. “But mama, why? Don’t you love me?”

“Wǒ aì nǐ,” her mother said. “I love you. We love you too much to ever want you to stay behind.”

•••

“Eighty-nine,” Yingg said.

The creases on her father’s forehead relaxed. Her mother’s brows tightened.

“I passed,” Yingg said in Chinese, before her mother could speak. “This is the last LangPure assessment for the year.” She watched the slightest tremor steal across her mother’s lips. Her heart clenched, like it always did in the past, when she returned home with an unsatisfactory score. “Ma, I’ll make ninety next time. I promise.”

“Your ma’s just relieved,” her father said, when her mother still did not reply. He stood from their couch and walked towards the transmission wall—so close, his face filled Yingg’s screen. “We know you can take care of yourself.”

Yingg nodded, counting the new lines on her father’s face. The bags under his eyes had deepened and there was a laxity to his jowls that she had not observed before. She leaned forward, touching the screen, as if this new proximity could narrow the distance between them.

“Chī bǎo lè mā?” her mother’s voice broke the silence, drawing her father back to the couch.

“Chī bǎo lè,” Yingg said automatically, though she had skipped dinner again. Her eyes darted to the corner where Alann’s nutrient pack awaited. “What about you, ma? Have you eaten?”

“We just had breakfast,” her mother said. “Your ba managed to grow some scallions. We had them with noodles.”

“I miss your cōng yóu miàn. I wish I had learnt how to cook it before I left.”

“It’s easy,” her mother said. “Even your ba can make it. I’ll give you the recipe.” 

“Did you save some—” Yingg blurted.

“Noodles? Your ba kept a bowl for lunch.”

“I can show you, if you really want to see.” Her father stood up. 

“No, no. I was just asking.” Yingg pressed her lips together as she watched him sit down. Her ba would have offered her the moon, if it was within his ability.

“Yíng.” Her mother sighed. “What’s wrong?”

“B-Ark will be making its last hyperspace jump next year. After that, it’s another six months to New Gaia.”

Her mother’s eyes widened, then crinkled. “That’s good. You’re on schedule.”

Yingg let out the words scraping at her insides. “Communications with Earth will be cut off once I reach the new settlement.”

She heard her father’s soft intake of breath. But it was her mother who replied. “Of course. We knew that when you were selected for New Gaia. A fresh start.”

Yes, Yingg thought. Everyone who chose the Settlement Program knew that. “What if they don’t have scallions on New Gaia?” Yingg asked. Panic gripped her throat, squeezing shut the words that wanted to tumble out. “What if I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” her mother said. “You must adapt. You can take care of yourself.”

“What if I forget?”

Her father let out a soft chuckle. He was holding her mother’s hand—tight enough that Yingg saw his knuckles pale. “It’s alright,” he whispered, voice cracking only once. “Leave the remembering to us.” 

•••

New Year’s Eve arrived too soon. 

At thirty minutes to midnight, Yingg crawled into bed. Her room was configured to its usual setting—a single porthole, positioned on the wall so she could watch the never-ending blackness outside while lying down.

A knock sounded. She ignored it, until the sharp raps turned into rhythmic tapping designed to grate at her nerves. Yingg opened the door. 

Alann stood outside, holding a nutrient pack in each hand. “Knew you weren’t asleep.” He stuck one foot into the room before she could shut him out.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” Yingg took a step back, allowing Alann to edge past her and enter her room proper.

“Tomorrow’s a holiday.” He pulled out the only chair in her small room, flopped onto it. “Also, we’ve known each other what? Three years now?”

“So?” Yingg briefly considered ordering Alann out of her chair before sitting down on the floor beside him.

“Thought it might be time we actually counted down to the new year together.” Alann had gotten hold of her remote and was fiddling with the room’s settings. He switched off her porthole, turning it into a full-length projection screen. 

“What are you up to?”

 “Patience,” Alann said, still busy with the controls. He threw her a nutrient pack. “Yours.”

Yingg caught the pack. It was warm. “I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I.” Alann set aside the remote, finally satisfied with whatever he was configuring. He tore the seal off his pack and took a long drink. “Come on,” he gestured for her to do the same. “While we wait for this thing to load.”

Yingg followed his example. Liquid flowed into her mouth—earthy and warm, sweet grass brushed with citrus. The aroma hugged her tongue, filled her nose. “What’s this?”

“Takrai.” This was the first time Yingg had ever heard Alann speak Thai. “Lemongrass.”

“Lemongrass tea?” Yingg took an appreciative sip. “Fancy.”

“Got it from a guy at our last Waystation. He flunked his Dreamscope two years ago. Spent his exile trying to grow exotic herbs in space.”

“He managed to get on our ship?”

Alann shook his head. “We spoke Thai. Guy didn’t even sit for the re-scope.”

“How bleak.” Yingg pulled her knees close, resting her chin on them. “At least he can still call home.” She closed her eyes, imagining a lush garden bursting with herbs she could not name. “Did he grow scallions?”

Instead of an answer, she heard a beep. Yingg opened her eyes and gasped. Her screen had sparked to life, black speckled with pinpricks of light. She turned to Alann, then back to her screen, staring into an impossible star-filled night. “How?”

“Live feed of New Gaia’s meteor shower!” Alann announced with a flourish, just as a star streaked past. “A special B-Ark event, so we can start our last year in space with a preview of our new home.” He laughed. “Didn’t get the memo again?”

Yingg shook her head. 

Alann stretched out on his chair in satisfaction. “Feels like we’re looking out of a window, no?”

Yingg rested her head on the side of Alann’s chair. “Thanks.” She slurped noisily, drawing out the last of the tea, letting it wash down the rising tightness in her throat.

Alann rapped her head with his knuckles. “My sister used to make lemongrass tea for me when I couldn’t sleep. She always served it hot, when I wanted it cold.” 

Yingg heard the smile in his voice. “You know what I do, when I can’t sleep?” 

“Brood?” 

She laughed. “I count stars.”

Alann snorted. “Old school. Does it work?”

“Sometimes.”

“Don’t fall asleep. We still have ten more minutes.” He slid down to the floor beside her, pointing at a glittering silver band in the projection. “What do you know? New Gaia has its own Milky Way.”

"Yínhé." Yingg corrected absently, eyes affixed to the screen. The Silver River. She had not seen a night sky in years. She had never seen the stars of New Gaia.

盈盈一水间。。。 Across the water, brimming bright…

An ancient poem about two divided stars. Yingg still remembered its lines in her father’s voice, though he had not recited poetry to her in years. 

“Yī, èr, sān, sì, wǔ…” she murmured, counting stars from a different galaxy as the new year fell into place.