The guardian of forgotten skies

No one remembers when the skies first fell silent.

There was a time when they roared with thunder, whispered with clouds, and wept with rain. A time when stars blinked through the velvet dark and comets painted trails of wonder. But now, the skies are quiet. Not dead—just forgotten.

They called me mad when I told them I could still hear the skies. That in the hush between heartbeats, I felt the breath of old winds, heavy with memory. They said I lived in the past. Maybe I did. But someone had to remember.

I live atop an old weather tower, long abandoned by the people below. Rust gnaws at its skeleton, but it still stands tall, like a sentinel waiting for a war that never came. I fixed the solar panels myself. Cleaned the glass of the observation dome. Built a nest out of books, old flight charts, and hand-written journals. Up here, I'm close to the sky—what's left of it.

Each morning, I rise before the sun. Not because I’m hopeful it will shine again, but because it feels like an act of faith. I log the clouds—if any. I record the wind, the pressure, the temperature. I do this even though no one reads my logs. Even though the weather is no longer part of anyone’s life. They've built their world underground now, where artificial lights replace sunlight, and virtual rain falls from indoor domes.

They say it’s safer down there. Maybe it is. But safe doesn't mean alive.

Sometimes, I climb out onto the topmost platform, strap myself in, and scream. Not words—just sound. Just something to stir the silence. And sometimes, on rare nights when the clouds break and a sliver of moon cuts through the gray, I swear the sky screams back.

I wasn't always alone.

There was a girl once. Her name was Lira. She had hair the color of wildfire and a laugh that could scatter crows. She believed in the skies too. We’d sit on the tower edge, legs dangling into nothing, and she'd read aloud from old weather books or whisper tales of gods who once rode lightning.

We made a pact: if the skies ever returned, we’d be the first to greet them.

But time is a thief with no conscience. One day, she stopped coming. Left me a note. Said she was tired of waiting for something that might never come. Said she needed to live, even if it meant going underground.

I didn’t blame her. I still don’t. Not everyone is built to love ghosts.

It’s been six years since she left. Or maybe seven. Up here, time doesn’t follow rules. Days stretch and snap, seasons blur. But I keep watch. I remember. I guard the sky not because I think it will reward me, but because some things deserve to be honored, even if they're fading.

Last night, something changed.

It started with a flicker—a shimmer across the horizon like heat on asphalt. Then came the sound. Not thunder, exactly. More like a hum, deep and ancient, like the earth trying to remember how to sing. I stood still, every hair on my body lifted, every bone ringing like a bell.

And then, light.

A beam pierced the cloud crust, thin and trembling, but real. It touched the tower, warmed my face. I cried then—not from joy, but from the sheer pain of remembering how much I’d missed it. The sky had spoken. After all this time, it still had a voice.

This morning, I climbed to the very top and sent out a signal. An old, coded frequency, long abandoned by weather stations. Just three words: The sky remembers.

I don’t know who heard it. Maybe no one. Maybe Lira. Maybe the wind itself. But it doesn’t matter.

Because I heard it too.

The skies are waking up.

And I’m still here.

Still watching.

Still believing.

I am the Guardian of Forgotten Skies—not because I was chosen, but because I refused to forget. In a world that turned its back on the heavens, I turned my face to them. And now, for the first time in forever, they are looking back.

So I’ll wait. I’ll keep my logs. I’ll climb, and scream, and sing. I’ll be the voice they hear when they return.

Because the skies deserve a witness.

And I am here.