“The star our whole town used to brag about — it’s gone.” “And I keep telling you, that’s got nothing to do with me.” On the doorstep, Tachibana — chair of the Star Appreciation Society — clutched her notebook tighter to her chest. Sakai already had the door half shut. “We just want one good memorial photo to hang in the community hall. But every picture we have comes out blurry — just a smear of light.” “Of course it does. The sky over this town’s always hazy white. A regular camera can’t catch anything but a smudge.” “That’s why I’m here. I heard you’re the only one with a sharp shot.” Sakai went inside and came back with a camera shaped like a black box. “Thermal camera. Sees straight through the haze. …My idiot neighbor’s been pointing some big floodlight at my house — too bright to sleep. So I put up one twice the size and pointed it right back. I’ve been aiming this thing at the sky every night, just to keep proof.” “Ah — well, I’m sure the neighbors will work it out eventually—” “Just look, already.” Tachibana leaned in to the screen and froze. ”…There’s no star.” “Huh?” “Right here. Where everyone’s been looking up to pray. On the thermal camera, there’s nothing. Just black.” Sakai leaned in too. Sure enough, the one point where the star should have been was pure black. Instead, the bottom of the screen was speckled white. ”…Aren’t these just the lights of the town?” “What?” “The haze blurs every light in town together and throws one big smear up into the sky. Your star was never anything but the town looking at its own lights.” Tachibana’s notebook slipped from her hands and hit the floor. The society had revered that star for forty years. No wonder. Among the white specks, two stood out, far brighter than the rest: the beacon atop the community hall’s watchtower — and the other, the absurdly oversized floodlight Sakai had put up out of spite. ”…That’s mine.” “Three days ago, the watchtower beacon went out for repairs, didn’t it?” “That’s when the star died. It was the biggest light in town.” “So if we turn it back on, it comes back?” “Your star runs on a light switch.” Tachibana’s face brightened by the second. A living star, it seemed, beat a memorial photo by a mile. That night, the town made a decision: every one of its biggest lights — the watchtower beacon, Sakai’s floodlight, all of them — would stay lit every single night. Every complaint about a neighbor’s lights got quietly withdrawn with the same excuse: “Well, that’s part of the star now.” That evening, following the new rule, Sakai put his hand on the switch of his own ridiculous floodlight. The light he’d spent two years fighting to shut off, he now lit himself, for the town. The haze bloomed outward, and one point in the sky glowed white again. A crowd gathered in the square, faces turned up, waving. Welcome back, they called. Welcome back. Sakai’s window filled with glare. Only the thermal camera in his hands showed what lay far beyond that light — the real sky. Black. Nothing there.