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Hermann bounces in his place between his brother and sister in the back of his parents’ car. He can’t sit still for the excitement. The discomfort of his wings being tied to his back doesn’t matter today and neither does the fact he’s wearing one of Dietrich’s oldest scratchy wool jumpers.
Tonight, for his fifth birthday, he’s going to the stars.
No neighborhood lights, no noisy dogs, just quiet darkness and the stars. The twenty minute drive to the hill west of the abbey takes forever as he drums his heels against the base of seat. His wings tremble against their bindings.
As soon as the car stops, Hermann takes off like a shot, running as fast as his skinny legs can carry him to the center of the field, while his family picks their way cautiously through the darkness.
He skids to a halt and throws his head back and stares at the sky. In this silent place, it is nearly bright as daylight to his eyes.
To him the sky is a thick carpet of lights with barely a gap between them. He sees far more stars than the rest of his family. Thousands more. So many more he can’t begin to count them. There is a whole universe only he can see.
He revels in it, forgetting everything else.