City That Slept Under theThe Stars

When the last train left the city of Aranor, silence took its place.
No smoke from the chimneys, no flickering lights from windows—only the stillness of a place that had forgotten how to wake up.

To anyone passing through, it looked abandoned. The cobbled streets were cracked with moss, clocks had stopped ticking, and the air carried a faint hum, like a tune someone had once sung and then forgotten. But in truth, Aranor wasn’t empty. Its people still lived there—only they were all asleep.

Every night for the past fifty years, the sun set over Aranor and never rose again. The stars remained frozen in the sky, unmoving and eternal, bathing the city in a silver glow. The citizens dreamed endlessly, trapped in their own slumber, their bodies preserved by the magic that had once made Aranor the most advanced city in the world.

Only one person stayed awake: Lira Vale, a watchmaker’s apprentice who had somehow escaped the spell.

Lira had lived alone for seventeen years, moving from house to house, winding the clocks that would never chime again, speaking to people who could not hear her. She had made it her duty to keep Aranor’s heart beating, even if it was only in memory.

Every night, she climbed the tallest tower—the Spire of Hours—and looked at the sleeping city below. The stars were reflected in the river that wound through Aranor like a ribbon of glass. And always, she wondered: Why me?
Why had she been spared when everyone else had fallen asleep?

She didn’t know, until the night the stars blinked.

It began with a single flicker—one star dimming, then shining again, as if winking at her. Then another. Then a ripple of movement across the heavens.

Lira gasped. For fifty years, the stars had never moved. But now, they were dancing.

She raced down from the tower and followed the river, her boots splashing through shallow puddles that glimmered with starlight. The air buzzed, and the hum she had always heard grew louder, clearer, like a voice whispering from the sky.

At the edge of the city, by the old train station, she saw him.

A young man stood there—awake, just like her.
He was dressed in a tattered blue coat, his eyes glowing faintly with light that wasn’t human. When he saw her, he smiled faintly.

“You can see me,” he said. His voice was soft but carried through the empty station like a melody.
“Of course I can,” Lira said, breathless. “Who are you?”
He tilted his head. “I am a memory,” he said. “The last piece of the dream that holds this city captive.”

Lira frowned. “You mean you’re part of the spell?”
“Yes,” he said. “Once, Aranor wished to escape the pain of the world. They built a dream engine to keep everyone safe, forever. But the dream grew too strong. It decided that peace meant never waking up again.”

Lira stepped closer. “Then how do we break it?”
He smiled sadly. “You already have. You’ve stayed awake this long because you were chosen—to remember, to repair the heart of time.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small golden gear—intricate, beautiful, and glowing with faint blue light. “This belongs to the city’s dream engine,” he said. “Place it in the Clock of Stars, and Aranor will wake again. But…”
“But what?”
He looked at her with eyes full of sorrow. “When the city wakes, the dream will end. And so will I.”

Lira stared at him, her heart pounding. He wasn’t human. He was part of the dream—the last piece keeping it alive. If she broke the spell, she’d be freeing everyone else but losing the only person she had spoken to in years.

She took the gear from his hand. “There has to be another way.”
He smiled gently. “There never is.”

Lira climbed the tower once more, her hands trembling. The Clock of Stars loomed above her—a vast mechanism of glass and light, its gears frozen in mid-turn. She fitted the golden gear into place, and the moment it clicked, the entire city shuddered.

The stars began to move again.
The clocks started ticking.
And somewhere far below, she heard the first cry of someone waking up.

The light grew brighter, washing over everything. Lira turned to the boy—but he was already fading.

“Thank you,” he whispered, as his form dissolved into starlight. “For remembering us.”

Then he was gone.

When the sun rose over Aranor for the first time in fifty years, the people woke to find their city glittering with dew and light. They had no memory of their endless dream—only a strange warmth in their hearts, as if someone had kept them safe all along.
Lira stood on the Spire of Hours, watching the sunrise with tears in her eyes.
She was no longer alone, yet she felt the ache of a goodbye that no one else would ever remember.

In the streets below, laughter echoed once more.
Aranor was alive again.
And high above, where the stars still shimmered faintly, one seemed to wink—just for her.