In a quiet town called Duskvale, where the stars seemed to hang lower than the clouds, sixteen-year-old Mira Allen lived with her head in the sky—literally and emotionally. Ever since she could remember, Mira had dreams where she flew. Not just in the regular, flapping-arms-and-falling kind of dreams—but soaring, navigating constellations, touching stardust.
Her best friend, Jonah Reyes, didn’t believe in dreams. He believed in math, in gravity, and in things that could be calculated. Still, he never laughed when Mira told him she flew over Saturn’s rings last night or dined with a moon lion. Instead, he’d nod and sketch the creature in her dream, adding details Mira hadn’t thought of—horns made of moonlight, paws that never touched ground.
But everything changed on the night of the Sky Fall Festival.
Duskvale had a legend—every fifty years, the sky opened for one night, letting those chosen touch the edge of the stars. Mira’s grandmother used to speak of it with reverence, though nobody had ever proven it happened. Most dismissed it as folklore. But Mira believed.
That year, the Festival coincided with a meteor shower. The townspeople filled the hilltops, lanterns floating, music echoing. Mira, in her silver hoodie and constellation boots, dragged Jonah to the Whispering Bluff, a place said to "listen to your heart’s loudest wish."
They sat in silence, watching meteors burn streaks across the navy sky.
“You ever wonder,” Mira said, “if maybe the stars want to meet us too?”
Jonah scoffed softly. “If stars had feelings, they’d probably want to be left alone. Billions of years of burning sounds exhausting.”
She laughed. “Maybe. But…what if tonight is different?”
He turned to her. “What if it is?”
Before Mira could answer, the air changed. It thickened—not with heat or cold, but with possibility. A deep vibration hummed beneath their feet. The meteor streaks paused, as if time hiccupped. Then, one bright light stopped midair—no falling, no fading. Just floating.
It hovered over them.
Jonah stood first, staring in disbelief. “That’s not normal.”
The light expanded, revealing a silvery door hovering a few inches off the ground. It shimmered like it was made of fog and steel.
Mira’s heart pounded. She stepped closer. The door pulsed.
“It’s…for you,” Jonah said quietly.
“No. It’s for us,” she said, grabbing his hand.
As soon as they touched, the door opened.
What lay beyond was not space or heaven—it was a mirror of the Earth, but the sky was below them and the ground above. Trees grew upside down, clouds formed lakes, and stars walked like animals.
“This is the Sky Between,” a voice said. It echoed without a source. “Only those who see beyond what is and believe in what could be may enter.”
Mira turned to Jonah, afraid he'd pull away. But he was smiling, wide-eyed, not with skepticism—but wonder.
“I think I just started dreaming,” he whispered.
They stepped in together.
Inside the Sky Between, time danced differently. Hours felt like seconds and seconds stretched like years. They soared on the back of silver hawks, read books that whispered instead of spoke, and learned that emotions carried weight—literally. Hope made you lighter. Fear grounded you.
They stayed until the sun back in Duskvale threatened to rise. The door to their world shimmered in warning.
Before leaving, the voice spoke again.
“Dreamers must return. But they never return the same.”
Back in Duskvale, everything felt duller—but only for a while. Mira still dreamed. But now, Jonah did too. He no longer sketched her dreams—he added to them.
Years later, the door never returned. But the sky seemed a little lower to them. Like it missed them, too.
And sometimes, on the quietest nights, when their hands brushed under the stars, Mira would whisper, “Do you remember the Sky Between?”
And Jonah would smile. “How could I forget? It’s where I learned how to fly.”
