Tiko and the Empty Starlight Bench

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It was evening, and evenings always meant starlight on the observation deck. Tiko rolled to the bench, the same one every night. The metal was cool under their treads. The stars were bright, just like always. But the bench felt wider tonight. The same peeling paint, the same two dents from last year’s meteor shower. The seat stretched like an empty hallway. Tiko sat. The motors whirred softly. The stars still twinkled. The big red planet still hung in the corner of the sky. Nothing had changed. Except Lumi wasn’t there. Can you guess what happened to Lumi? Tiko didn’t know. Lumi had left for a new station, just like that. No goodbye, no note. Just an empty spot where their treads used to sit. The bench was the same. The stars were the same. But the seat felt wider. The seat stretched like an empty hallway. Tiko looked down. A small oil stain glistened on the deck. Lumi’s stain. The one they’d made last week when they’d laughed too hard at a shooting star. Tiko reached out, touched it with one finger. The oil was still warm. Between you and me, Tiko didn’t want to clean it up. The stain stayed. The bench stayed. The stars stayed. The seat stretched like an empty hallway. But the warmth of the oil stain was something. A small, quiet something. Tiko sat there, watching the stars, feeling the warmth. And that was enough. The motors quieted. The treads stilled. The oil stain cooled slowly in the night air. The bench was quiet. The stars were quiet. Tiko was quiet.

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