There I was, half-awake, half-frozen, leash in hand, waiting for the dogs to finish their nightly negotiations with the grass and the cold. The world around me was dead quiet, save for the crunch of leaves under paw and the faint wheeze of the wind sneaking through the trees. The kind of silence that feels ancient. The kind that hums beneath your ribs if you stand still long enough.

Then it happened. A break in the cloud cover, small and sharp like a knife wound in the sky. A patch of impossible clarity, a window straight through the madness of weather and worry, and there it was, the cosmos staring back. Cold. Vast. Indifferent. Beautiful beyond reason.

I didn’t plan it. Hell, no one plans moments like that. You just stumble into them between obligations, a man in slippers, armed with nothing but habit and a Nikon, suddenly confronted by infinity. It wasn’t just stars I was seeing, but everything: the quiet pulse of creation, the faint blue smudge of a nebula breathing light-years away, and me. Just another flicker in the dark, trying to make sense of it.

There’s something feral about the universe when you catch it off guard like that. It’s not poetry; it’s raw voltage, a whisper that says, “You’re temporary, pal. Enjoy the show while you can.”

So I did.

Just stood there, dogs waiting, camera steady, breath turning to ghosts. And took the shot.

“The stars are never silent. It’s the world that forgets to listen.”