A Pocket Full of Stars

A Pocket Full of Stars

Arman was a quiet man, the kind whose presence was like a steady breeze—gentle, dependable, always there. He worked at the local railway station for nearly two decades, wearing the same navy-blue uniform, carrying the same thermos filled with lukewarm chai. His hands were calloused from long hours, and his eyes held stories he rarely spoke aloud. But every evening, no matter how tired he was, he would rush home to one person who made everything worth it—his daughter, Noor.

Noor was five when her mother passed away, too young to remember much, but old enough to understand that her world had changed. Since then, her father had become her everything. He cooked her breakfast—burnt toast and sweet tea. He tied her hair in the most crooked ponytails. And every night, without fail, he told her a bedtime story.

"Tell me a story, Baba," she would whisper after brushing her teeth and climbing into her little bed.

And so, he would sit beside her, sometimes with oil on his hands from the train engines, and spin tales from thin air. There were stories of flying trains that could talk, of cities made entirely of chocolate, and of brave little girls with magic red crayons who saved their villages from giants. He always named the main character Noor.

“Will you always be here?” she asked one evening, her voice sleepy, her fingers wrapped around his.

He looked at her seriously, then smiled. “Even when I’m not here, you’ll find me in your pocket.”

She blinked. “In my pocket?”

He nodded, reaching into his shirt and pulling out a small folded paper star. “I’ll leave you one of these every night. When you miss me, just hold it.”

From that night onward, Noor found a star under her pillow each evening. Sometimes it was gold, sometimes blue, sometimes just white paper with tiny hearts drawn on it. She never told anyone about them. It was their secret.

Years passed like pages turning in a well-loved book. Noor grew up. She got glasses. She started reading her own stories. She graduated with honors, left for the city to study journalism, and dreamed of writing stories for the world.

Arman never stood in her way. He just packed her bag quietly, put a few extra stars inside, and kissed her forehead.

“Don’t forget to look in your pocket,” he said softly.

Noor did well. She became a reporter, moved into a small apartment, made new friends. But every month, she mailed a letter home. Inside each one was a paper star—now it was her turn to leave a little magic behind.

Time, as it does, moved on. Arman's hands grew weaker, his vision dimmer. He stayed at home mostly, sitting on the porch with a blanket around his legs and memories wrapped around his heart.

One winter evening, he received a letter, but it wasn’t from Noor. It was from the hospital—she had been in an accident.

Before fear could swallow him, she arrived at the gate, limping slightly, holding a small glowing keychain shaped like a star.

“You brought me light,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “Now it’s my turn.”

She sat beside him, wrapped his hands in hers, and together they stared at the sky. The stars above twinkled like paper promises.

“You know, Baba,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder, “those stories you told me… they taught me to believe. To be brave. To write. To love.”

He smiled, his eyes closed, listening to the sound of her voice. The same voice that once asked if he would always be there.

In her heart, he always was.

Because some loves are stitched not in words, but in bedtime stories, in folded paper stars, and in the quiet presence of someone who never lets go.