Where The Stars Go

Raven sat in her father’s study, a first-grader waiting for a bell that never rang. For her, school happened at home.

Her father emptied a pack of silver pins into her small hand, preparing her for the geography lesson.

The pins were sharp, like little teeth, biting cold against her skin.

I liked these the best.

In the neon light from the office lamp, the pins seemed to wink at her, tiny sparks dancing across their surfaces, as if they were wishing her good luck.

The map hung high on the wall, just above the desk, in her father’s study, proud and out of reach. Raven craned her neck to see the farthest states, the ones she wished she would visit one day. Her fingers itched to place a pin into each one, imagining it was her steps in the outside world. She pressed the pins into her palm again, encouraging herself to edge toward the stool pushed under the desk.

She stepped onto the stool and froze. The legs wobbled beneath her, betraying the firm surface she had trusted.

For a moment, she felt like herself in the world—trying to be steady, trying to be right—but everything kept tipping just slightly, and the harder she focused, the more she realized she couldn’t find her balance. Her knees locked instinctively, a tiny act of control in a place that refused to stay still.

Her father didn’t move an inch. He just waited for her to find the balance herself.

She almost tripped, and she pressed one hand on the glass table top. The smooth surface felt slippery, but somehow it was still there, like a hand reaching out to help her.

“Tsk tsk,” her father’s sharp voice cut from across the room. “Don’t smear the glass with your sweaty fingers.”

Raven flinched, pulling her hand back and struggling to maintain her balance on the tall stool.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

From this higher spot, she could finally see the winding lines of the country with her eyes. The pins felt heavy with promise, cold and sharp reminders that she had a job to do—and maybe, if she did it perfectly, she could make the world around her a little steadier too.

“Here—” he instructed “—is New York.”

Her father’s voice rose behind her, and her heart thumped hard against her ribs. Not distant, not casual like it usually was when he leaned against the opposite wall—but close. Too close. Almost breathing down her neck like a furious dragon. His tone snapped at her, quick and biting, like the neighbor’s dog barking at birds.

If I do well, Dad won’t be angry anymore.

She swallowed. “New York.”

“Again.”

Say it right. Just say it right. He won’t frown if it’s right this time.

She wanted to see him smile and scoop her up proud, like she saw other fathers did in the park. While hers reached for her hand and forced her to get in the backseat of the car and hurry home.

“New York,” she whispered, softer.

He checked his watch, already frowning. His phone buzzed on the desk. He snatched it up, glancing at the screen.

“Stay there, don’t move.”

Raven nodded.

He walked out fast, muttering into the phone. His voice echoed down the hallway, until it faded.

She could fix it before he came back. There was still time.

The room got quiet. She kept staring at the map, while tangling a strand of black hair around her finger, trying to remember which one was Georgia.

Her finger hovered in the air, then dropped down her side.

She pressed her lips together.

He always said this was better than school. That she didn’t need other teachers. He would show her everything the right way.

She had seen children a few times, through the car window—running, shouting, talking about group projects, teachers and the gold stars stuck on their notebooks.

Raven has her own stars to make up for it.

She had to be right.

Then—soft steps behind her. Slower than her father’s, and careful. Raven didn’t turn her head, but her stomach squeezed tight.

A woman appeared beside her, just at the edge of the map’s frame. She smelled like cinnamon rolls, that her mom got out of the oven just on Christmas Day. And of cold winter air, the remnants of a snowflake melting away on the fabric of her coat. And her hair was the brightest thing Raven had ever seen since Sunset Shimmer from My Little Pony—long ribbon-like flames swirling over her shoulders.

Raven stared at her sideways. The woman didn’t smile. Just looked at the map with her head tilted.

Then she stepped closer. Her coat brushed the stool. Raven still didn’t move.

The woman leaned in, voice low but warm.

“What’s that you've got there?”

Raven slowly opened her hand, showing the pins in her palm.

“Stars,” she said, “Dad said they should mark important places.”

The woman nodded. “Sure thing, dear. Let me show you some important ones.”

She softly took Raven’s hand and guided her, and together, they pressed a silver pin into New York. Then Atlanta. Then Chicago.

Tiny clicks. Little stars.

Now Raven liked how they sparkled even more.

“These places,” the woman whispered, like she was telling a secret to the wall, “are where the light hides. Like playing hide and seek.”

Raven’s two big eyes in which a peaceful cobalt swam, blinked confused. “Why would light hide?”

The woman looked toward the hallway, her shoulders tight.

“Because some people, like your father, built shadows out of it.”

That didn’t make much sense. But Raven nodded anyway.

The woman knelt beside her now, her voice small.

“One day, you’ll need to go. When that day comes—follow the stars, Raven.”

Her father’s angry footsteps were audible again.

He showed up in the doorway, and Raven’s foot almost tripped over the stool, but the woman’s hand reached to help her keep her balance.

“Why are you here, Scarlet?” His voice struck like thunder, the worst part of a stormy night, when she pulled the blankets closer around her and prayed for them to be gone.

The woman stood up quickly, her coat flared at the bottom, facing him.

“We have a problem,” she responded.

Raven was rushed out of the room, her father’s hand gripping her shoulder a little too hard. She looked back once, just enough to see the red-haired woman—Scarlet, the name her father called her—still standing there like a flame ready to burn down the place.

Behind closed doors, Raven’s stomach churned at each snap of their voices. Sharp knives squeaking on the plates, when her father insisted on silence at dinner.

The clock’s pendulum had long since reached fifteen minutes, yet it kept moving, and Raven could only wonder when it would be over. She wished it to be over, so she could go back and make him happy. Show him she memorized them all.

Then, the door opened. The fire-hair left in a hurry, a hush of cold air invited inside once the door slammed shut. And the house felt colorless again, without her.

Raven crept back into her father’s study. The map was still there. Her pins sparkled.

“Dad,” she said, peeking in, "I think I figured them out.”

He was pouring something brown into a glass. The smell stung her nose.

“Figured what?” he asked, eyes on the drink.

“The states! I want to show you — look!” She pointed proudly at the map. Her stars. Her places. Her voice lifted, bright, like she’d finally gotten it right.

“Don’t,” he said. “Enough geography.”

She didn’t move. She looked up.

“But Dad —”

“I said enough!”

He turned, and his arm moved fast.

Whip!

The pins flew. One hit her wrist. Paper rained to the floor in angry pieces.

Raven didn’t cry.

She just stared at the broken map. Her stars were gone.

And, for the first time, she wasn’t sure if they were visible to him at all.

Her attempts to make him happy.