The trail unwinds before us, a ribbon of ochre against the endless blue. We ride in silence, but it’s a different silence now—not absence, but anticipation. Not emptiness, but the quiet before something blooms. The night beneath the stars hadn’t vanished in the morning sun. It had folded itself neatly between us, packed into the saddle bags of memory.
Billy doesn’t bring up the house again. He doesn’t have to. That vision, built from the timber of his hope, rides with us now—changed, expanded. I see it in the way his gaze lingers on the horizon, the way his lips twitch as if caught mid-thought. He’s adding rooms to it in his mind. A workbench. A piano. A place for growing old or pretending to. The house is no longer a dream he offered to me—it’s a blueprint etched behind his eyes, quietly revised with each beat of his heart.
And I? I pretend not to see it. Not to notice the corners he’s sanded smooth, the porch swing that creaks gently in my imagination when the wind blows just right. But the truth is—I do. I feel it more each hour. The house is not some conjured fantasy anymore. It's becoming real—real in the way that ideas are before they are born. Real like gravity. Real like regret.
The sun beats down, relentless, but a gentle breeze whispers through the canyons, carrying the scent of sage and sun-baked earth. Billy’s hat is pulled low, shading his eyes, but I can see the curve of his cheek, the way his lips occasionally twitch in a ghost of a smile. What is he thinking? Does he regret his openness that night? Or does he, too, feel this strange pull, this invisible thread that seems to connect us across the vast expanse of time and difference?
I have seen empires rise and fall, witnessed the birth and death of stars. I have known love in its myriad forms, fleeting and profound, but always from a distance, always as an observer. To truly feel, to be caught in the current of mortal emotion, is a risk I have long avoided. And yet, here I am, willingly riding alongside a boy whose life is but a blink in the cosmic eye, and feeling… drawn.
The landscape stretches out before us, a tapestry of mesas and canyons, painted in hues of red and gold. The silence continues, unbroken, but it is no longer an empty silence. It is a silence pregnant with possibility, with the potential for something more. I find myself wanting to fill it, to ask him about his dreams, his fears, the things that make his mortal heart beat. But the words catch in my throat, held back by centuries of ingrained detachment.
We pass a lone Joshua tree, its branches reaching skyward like supplicating arms. It stands as a silent sentinel, a witness to the passage of time, just as I have been. But unlike the tree, rooted to this earth, I am free to leave, to walk away from this burgeoning connection, to return to the cold, detached existence I have always known. The thought is both comforting and terrifying.
Billy shifts in his saddle, breaking the silence. “You’re quiet today, Tak,” he says, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “Something on your mind?”
The question hangs in the air, simple yet profound. It is an invitation, a chance to bridge the gap between us, to reveal a sliver of the truth that lies hidden beneath my carefully constructed facade. But the words remain unspoken, trapped behind a wall of ancient fears and divine prohibitions.
“Just enjoying the ride,” I reply, my voice carefully neutral. A lie. A small, insignificant lie, but a lie nonetheless. And with that lie, I feel the thread between us tighten, pulling us closer, even as I try to push him away.
He nods slowly, his eyes searching mine. I can see a flicker of disappointment in their depths, a hint of understanding that I am not being entirely honest. But he doesn’t press, doesn’t push. He simply turns his gaze back to the trail ahead, and the silence returns, heavier now, tinged with a hint of sadness.
The sun climbs higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the desert floor. We ride on, two figures silhouetted against the vast landscape, bound together by a shared journey, yet separated by an unbridgeable gulf. And I know, with a growing sense of unease, that this silence cannot last, that sooner or later, the unspoken questions will demand to be answered.
We stop by a creek to water the horses, the silence broken only by the gentle gurgle of the water and the rustling of leaves in the cottonwoods that line the bank. He dismounts with a fluid grace, his movements economical, efficient. He offers me a canteen, his eyes meeting mine for a brief, fleeting moment.
In that instant, I see something flicker within him, a question, a vulnerability, a hint of something more profound than the casual camaraderie we’ve shared thus far. It’s a fleeting glimpse, gone as quickly as it appeared, but it’s enough to send a tremor through my carefully constructed detachment.
I take the canteen, our fingers brushing. A jolt. Unwelcome. Familiar. Unsettling. A sensation I haven’t felt in centuries. The thread between us quivers, drawn taut.
I look away, busying myself with the horse, pretending not to notice the heat that flushes my cheeks, the sudden quickening of my pulse. I am a godling. I should be immune to such… mortal feelings. But I’m not. And that realization, more than anything, frightens me.
The terrain shifts as we continue. Pine forests rise around us. The scent of resin and wildflowers replaces the scorched breath of the desert. The silence deepens—not the comforting kind, but the kind that sits between you like a question with no good answer.
That night we camp under a bluff carved by centuries of wind. The fire he builds is modest, its glow painting amber onto the sandstone. As the flames flicker, I glance at him. He hasn’t looked at me the same since I dodged his question. A small chasm now runs between us, and I find myself standing at its edge.
“Tak,” he says at last, voice low. “Are you alright? You seem… far away.”
Far away. Gods, if only he knew how far. If only he knew that my earliest memory predates the alphabet. That my blood once ran with thunder. That I watched the first city burn because I loved it too much to let it grow.
“I’m fine, Henry,” I lie again. The words are dust on my tongue. “Just… thinking.”
He doesn’t press, but he doesn’t believe me either.
Later, after the fire has quieted and the stars reclaim their stage, I watch him drift into sleep. I do not sleep. I never do. Instead, I sit and watch the stars burn quietly above the roof of that invisible house he keeps building. And I feel that ancient ache again—hope.
Hope that maybe I could belong to something more than myth. Hope that maybe, for once, I could stay until the story ends.
But even in hope, fear makes its nest.
Because stars die. And boys like Billy, boys who build houses in the sky, don’t always make it back down.
