Fern

At the very edge of the universe, there’s a star. They say that if you squint really hard for a while and then open your eyes suddenly, you can make it out. But people say a lot of things, and most of it carries about as much weight as a sparrow’s sneeze. The star’s sisters had their own planets, and some even had moons orbiting their planets. Our star, however, was alone. The older stars often chided her, saying, “You’re not a little girl anymore; it’s about time you got at least one. It’s a shame and a disgrace on a cosmic scale! A star without a single planet. And even your meteorites are kind of puny.” The star would brush it off, blaming cosmic winds and coming up with a thousand excuses, but she continued to live alone. To tell the truth, she really wanted to have her own planet—or better yet, two. The life of a star may be long, but it’s not eternal after all, and how wonderful it would be in her old age to rejoice in her blossoming planets and shower them with warmth. But light-years flew by, cosmic winds blew, and yet nothing changed. And then one day, when all her sisters had fallen asleep, the star decided to look for at least some shabby little planet. She peered intently into the blackness of space for a long time, and suddenly, something flickered faintly in the distance. It flashed and vanished. Then again. The star strained her eyes and saw a man striking a match against a box, trying to light his way. At that very moment, on Earth, a young man was making his way through the taiga at night. He’d decided to find the flowering fern no matter what, but ended up wandering in circles until he was completely lost. To make matters worse, the weather was gloomy; clouds completely covered the sky, and he couldn’t see a thing. There were only four matches left in the box—but what good would they do? He was just about to give up hope and collapse under the nearest tree, folding his arms across his chest, when suddenly he saw a faint glow ahead. The young man immediately pushed aside his dark thoughts and strode briskly toward the light, trying not to blink so as not to lose his hope of rescue. Half an hour later, the taiga was behind him, and he was standing on a hill. At its foot, the sleepless city shimmered with a scattering of reflections from chandeliers and nightlights, and in the sky, a small star shone through the clouds. He took off his jacket, spread it on the grass, sat down, lit his pipe, and gazed at his savior without looking away until dawn. He told her all sorts of stories and even read her poems he had written himself. Meanwhile, at the edge of the universe, a cosmic morning had dawned. The star sisters stretched sweetly, combed their solar prominences, and glanced in surprise at their youngest sister. She was shining far too brightly. “Are we expecting a new addition to the family, little sister?” asked the older one. “No,” replied the star, “I’ve found something greater.” “Greater than a planet? Oh, little sister! Accept our congratulations!” “I didn’t find a planet,” the star smiled, “I found a human.” “Why a human?” the older sister asked in surprise. “What are you going to do with him? He’s a human, after all.” “But you’re a star! You’re supposed to light up the planets. You have to…” “I don’t have to do anything!” the star declared, putting an end to the conversation, and went out. At that very moment, somewhere on Earth, a fern bloomed. Well, apparently, for some people, it’s important to have planets revolving around them, while for others, it’s enough to know that you have your special someone. To know this and to be his cherished, blooming fern.