The girl who wanted to collect stars

In a quiet village surrounded by silent hills and a sky that always seemed too big, lived a little boy named Ibrahim. He was nine—quiet, thoughtful, and often lost in dreams. The villagers found him strange. He talked to the moon, made toys from leaves, and once tried to “trap the wind” in a glass bottle. But Ibrahim never minded, because he had Zoya, his six-year-old sister, the only person who truly believed in him.

Zoya was sunshine in human form. She had wild curls, eyes that glittered like morning dew, and a voice that made even the grumpiest rooster in the village stop to listen. But more than anything, Zoya believed in magic.

She believed trees could talk, shadows were shy creatures, and—most importantly—that stars were tiny wishes scattered across the sky.

“Bhai,” she whispered one night as they lay on their rooftop, staring at the stars, “I want to collect them. One by one.”

Ibrahim chuckled. “You’ll need wings, you know. And a jar big enough to carry the sky.”

So the next day, he built her wings from cardboard and silver foil. Then he took an old jam jar and filled it with fireflies. “Until you reach the stars, this will hold your light,” he said proudly.

Zoya wore her wings all day. She ran through the fields, climbed trees, chased butterflies, and told every bird she met, “I’m coming to the stars soon. Save me a spot!”

But dreams have a way of floating just out of reach.

One bitter winter, the wind changed. Zoya caught a fever—nothing unusual at first. But this fever didn’t go away. She grew weaker each day. Her laugh faded, her steps slowed. The village clinic did its best, but the doctor finally said the words no brother should hear: “She has a condition we can’t treat here.The family had no money for a hospital in the city.The wings lay untouched by the window. The fireflies in the jar dimmed.

Doctors came, whispered things. Medicines arrived, prayers were whispered. But Ibrahim could see it in her eyes—she was slipping away.

One night, when the moon was low and the stars unusually bright, Zoya turned to her brother with a tired smile.

“Bhai... promise me you’ll still look at the stars.”

“No,” he said, holding back tears. “You’re not going. You haven’t even collected one yet.”

“I will,” she whispered. “Just… not from here.”

She closed her eyes. The jar by her side glowed for the last time.


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After her funeral, the world seemed dim. Ibrahim stopped speaking. He stopped smiling. He sat on the roof every night, clutching the jar and her broken wings. The villagers tried to console him, but he only said:

“She went to collect stars. I’m just waiting for her to come back.”

Weeks passed. Then months.

Some say they saw a strange light in the sky once—like a falling star that stopped mid-air, paused above Ibrahim’s roof, and then vanished.

One old woman swore she heard laughter—faint, like the sound of a dream—from the neem tree near the house.

Years passed. Ibrahim never left the rooftop.

Then one morning, as dawn broke softly over the hills, the villagers found him lying on the roof, eyes closed, a peaceful smile on his face. In his hand was the same golden jar.

It was warm.

And inside, resting gently, was a single silver feather—too small to be from any bird, too perfect to be from this world.

The villagers buried him next to Zoya, under the big neem tree. And some nights, if the wind is just right, and the sky is clear enough, people say you can see two stars dancing, circling each other just above the village.

One shines silver.

The other, gold.

And the sky has never felt closer.

Moral

True love never fades—it lives on in memories, dreams, and the quiet places where hearts once met. Some souls are borrowed light, meant to teach us how to shine… before returning to the sky.