The fire of the oven crackled as the warm scent of bread filled the modest bakery. Flour dusted the wooden counters and settled into the creases of the baker's calloused hands. Beside him, his son, Michael, kneaded dough with a quiet intensity. He was seventeen, with messy hair and eyes that always seemed to drift upward, toward the sky.
"Michael," the baker began, placing a loaf into the oven. "Your college papers came in. You're officially accepted."
Michael hesitated, fingers freezing mid-knead. "Dad... I need to tell you something."
The baker wiped his hands on a rag and turned to his son, sensing the gravity in his voice.
"I don't want to go to college," Michael said.
His father blinked, stunned. "What? We worked so hard for this. I saved every last coin for you."
"I know. And I'm grateful, truly. But I want to study the stars. Astronomy."
The silence hung thick between them. The baker looked at his son, eyes shadowed by disappointment, but also something else—an understanding.
He sighed deeply and placed a firm hand on Michael's shoulder. "If that is what you truly want... then I'll arrange for a tutor."
Michael's eyes lit up. "Really, Dad?"
"Yes," the baker said. "Follow your truth, not mine."
Two days later, Michael stood nervously in the village square, scanning the cobblestone road. A tall, flaxen-haired man approached with a spring in his step and a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Yo ho!" the man called, waving enthusiastically. "You must be Michael. I'm Lucien. Your new tutor."
Michael nodded. "Nice to meet you."
Lucien looked around. "The stars aren't much good here, too many lanterns. Let's head to the fields. Clearer skies."
They walked together, the tall grass brushing against their legs. As they reached a clearing, Lucien gestured for Michael to sit.
"Have you done any prior observation? Taken notes?" Lucien asked.
Michael opened his satchel and handed over a bundle of crinkled pages. "I've been tracking the constellations for months. Here, this is Mars. I noticed something strange—it started to move backward."
Lucien raised an eyebrow, flipping through the sketches. "Retrograde motion. Very impressive. You've got a sharp eye."
He pulled a brass pocket-scope from his coat. "Here. It's not the best, but it'll show more than the naked eye."
Michael peered through it, marveling at the crimson dot in the sky. Lucien continued, "Mars appears to move backward because Earth moves faster in its orbit. When we pass Mars, it looks like it's going the other way, though it's still moving forward."
Michael's eyes widened with wonder. "That... actually makes a lot of sense."
Lucien smirked. "Good. You've got the mind for this. Say, there's a gathering at the tavern tonight—astronomers, philosophers, thinkers. I'd like you to join me. Be my plus one."
Michael beamed. "You're serious?"
"Of course. You deserve to be heard."
That evening, the tavern glowed with golden lanternlight and bustling voices. The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meat. Lucien led Michael inside, placing a hand proudly on his shoulder.
"Gentlemen," Lucien announced to a round table of scholars, "this is Michael, my new apprentice."
Chairs scraped as the men turned to greet him. They exchanged names, ideas, and laughter, and Michael found himself swept into a tide of wonder. He spoke of planetary motion, of eclipses he'd witnessed, of his hopes to map the skies.
A few scholars invited him over to their table. Michael eagerly agreed, drawn by their curiosity and warmth.
Hours passed like seconds. Then Michael's face fell.
"I left my observation book at home," he muttered.
"Go fetch it!" one of them encouraged. "We'd love to see your work."
Michael dashed out, heart pounding with excitement. He reached the bakery, the soft amber light still glowing inside. But something was wrong. The door was ajar. The air was cold.
He stepped inside and froze.
His father lay on the floor, motionless. Blood pooled beneath his head, soaking into the flour-stained wood.
Lucien stood beside him, wiping a crimson-streaked knife on a cloth.
"No..." Michael whispered, stumbling back. "No, no, no..."
Lucien turned slowly, almost regretful. "Sorry, kid. Your dad and I—we made a discovery. Something revolutionary. We agreed on fifty-fifty. But he wanted it all."
He sighed. "As a researcher, I just couldn't let that happen."
Michael collapsed to his knees, the world shattering around him.
Lucien gave him one last look before walking out into the night.
Fifteen Years Later
A man moved quietly through the village marketplace. His clothes were simple, dusted with flour. A sack of it sat in one hand, and a jar of yeast in the other. His hair was longer now, streaked with gray, though he was still young.
Michael.
He was a ghost in the town where he once dreamed, now a shadow among those who never noticed. He passed people without a word, a quiet figure of routine and resignation.
As he turned a corner, a gust of wind whipped through the alley. The sack of flour tore slightly, white powder spiraling upward like smoke.
He looked up.
The stars.
A familiar constellation twinkled in the dark sky. Mars. And beside it, a name long buried in his heart: Thaumazein—the ancient title of a star once said to embody truth.
His breath caught. The wind whispered secrets into his ears. The sky had not forgotten him.
He stood there for a long time, the stars gazing back at him, as if waiting for something.
As if welcoming him home.
The End.