Lira cried. Sparx offered her a handkerchief woven from fog.
She did. Over the years, so did many others. Sparx never charged a coin. He collected stray hopes, orphaned curiosities, the faint trails of almost-remembered dreams. And on quiet nights, when the fog rolled in and the clocks ran backward, he would trace their paths across the starlight map, weaving them into new constellations—guides for anyone else who had lost their way. sparx matys
Sparx didn’t look up. “I find what was never truly gone.” Lira cried