The blue stars shiver in the distance Tonight he could tell a story about a boy, an open window, and a sky full of stars. Tonight he could write a song, write a poem, paint a picture, create a future. But tonight, he didn’t want to tell a story at all. Because stories had happy endings, and what use was a happy ending if there was no one to share it with?
The wind could tell stories too, and Jehan liked to close his eyes and imagine Victor in that same wind, playing Quidditch or laughing with friends, because of course Victor had lots of friends at Sonora. You couldn’t not like Victor.
Stars could be storytellers, but they also made good companions, and as Jehan sat on the windowsill he felt less alone. With Victor gone the house was empty. Mother and Father had Things To Do, and Jehan was only a little boy, not an important business deal or a society lunch.
A smile crept onto his face. His fingers gently touched a little book next to him, a book he’d found in the library earlier that day. Victor would tell him it was stupid, before helping him hide it. Mother and Father would tell him it was worthless (why were they wrong so often? Jehan hated to be wrong, and he didn’t understand how they coped with it). But Jehan thought that little book was better than any treasure he and Victor had ever discovered. It contained words, and not just any words. Jehan was well-acquainted with words, and how wonderful they could be, but these words were better than any he had read before. They were different, forbidden, and magical in a way nothing else had quite managed to be.