I remember Joam the way one remembers a cool breeze rising at dawn, a whisper of air that brushes past and vanishes before it has the chance to truly touch you. He was always there, yet never fully present. Perhaps it was I who never truly saw him. Or perhaps he was simply always slipping away. Either way, Joam—the orphaned boy raised within the stone walls of a monastery tucked away in the mountains of a land not unlike Norway—had a peculiar habit: he would gaze at the sky.
I say "habit," but it was more than that. It was a quiet, persistent obsession. His eyes would often drift upward, drawn to the vastness of the night, as if he were searching for something he couldn't quite name. The stars were not, to him, objects of beauty or distant dots in a painted dome. No, to Joam, they were more than that. They were a language. A code or a call. A message he waited for again and again—without ever truly knowing what it was he hoped to find.
I couldn't tell you when it began, this search for answers in the stars. Perhaps it was during the long winter nights, when the dormitory fires would burn low and darkness would press in against the thick walls of the monastery. The cold bit deep. All was still. And Joam, lying alone on his straw mattress, would have that distant gleam in his eyes, as though everything around him were merely a backdrop to something greater. It was then that he would peer through the cracked windowpane of his room, through the frost-laced glass, and lose himself in the infinite.
I remember him telling me, now and then, how he fell asleep watching the stars, as if they were there to keep vigil over him. He said the sky spoke to him, in a way. But he never said what it spoke of. Perhaps I wasn't meant to understand. Perhaps no one ever was.
If Joam's story were to be told, it would begin there, in the silence beneath the frozen heavens, under a sky so vast it seemed to swallow all that was human. Had you seen him there, in that dark valley where stone and shadow merged, perhaps you would have understood. Perhaps you would have seen what I did not, not at first: a young boy, both lost and searching, a solitary soul trying to understand why he was here—why he existed at all.
On the surface, his life seemed peaceful. An orphan among monks, following their rules, their rhythm, learning to pray, to chant the psalms, to honour the saints and the martyrs of faith. But the world of men, with its rituals and prayers, had never been enough for Joam. Something deeper called to him. Something beyond churches and scriptures. Something that made him look up.
One might call it solitude, but that would be too easy. Joam was not unhappy. He did not long for parents he had never known. He had made a life for himself within the monastery: food, shelter, structure. Yet through all those years, something remained missing. Perhaps it was the sense that the universe—this vast, unfolding mystery—held meaning. That life was not merely a succession of cold days and silent prayers.
It was then that the sky became his refuge. Not a refuge from which to flee the world—no, not that. A refuge of hope. Of searching. At night, while the others slept, he would sometimes climb up onto the monastery roofs, lying still upon the frozen tiles, his face turned towards the ocean of stars, the endless beyond.
There were nights when the sky felt so vast to him that he longed to reach out, to brush against it, to become one with it. And there, in that frozen stillness, he would drift deep into thought. Does life have meaning? he would wonder. Do the stars carry a message meant for me? And each night, he waited—not quite knowing for what, only that he must wait. A sign. A shift in the light. Something to show him the way.
Joam believed in signs. He believed that somewhere in the vastness above, an answer existed, and that, sooner or later, the stars would reveal it to him. He said he was not alone up there. That the sky listened. That it understood. There was a quiet faith in him, almost childlike in its simplicity, yet utterly sincere. And each evening, as he lifted his eyes to the heavens, a faint glimmer of hope would return to his weary gaze. Perhaps tonight, he would think, perhaps tonight the sky will speak.
As for me, I wasn't sure I believed in such things. But I did believe in the look he had when he gazed at the stars. There was something in his eyes—a certain light—that made me think he might be right, after all.
I can't say precisely why the sky was different that night. Perhaps there are nights like that, when the air hangs heavier, thick with something unspoken—as though it carries within it a promise, a truth waiting to be unveiled. But Joam had never noticed it before. Not like this. That evening, he was on the roof once more, alone—yet not entirely so. He was like a leaf caught in the wind, a soul suspended in the hush before something begins. And it was there, at that moment, that everything changed.
I know he wasn't prepared for it. Nor was I. Nor was anyone. Perhaps he still believed the stars were there merely to be admired, to fill the quiet hours of an orphaned boy lost in thought. But that night, something shifted. Something vast—something beyond comprehension—entered his world.
The sky drew closer. It became alive. At first, it was like a breeze brushing against his skin, but not a breeze as we know it. No, it was something else. Something he could neither name nor grasp. He closed his eyes, thinking he might be dreaming, that his senses were playing tricks on him. But the feeling grew stronger. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't his imagination. Something was truly there. Something strange. Something powerful. A voice.
It didn't come from any one place—not from the mountain, nor the monastery. It came from somewhere else entirely. Another realm, perhaps. Another dimension. It slipped through the air and into his mind, not carried by sound, but by thought. Soft, yet immense. A voice without shape, merging with the night itself.
"Joam…"
I tell you, he had never heard anything so pure. It wasn't quite a word, nor even a sound. It was a presence. An invitation. A calling. He started, his heart pounding, as though a sliver of light had pierced the very core of his being. There was no time to question if it was real—he already knew. The sky had spoken to him.
"Joam, do not be afraid." The voice, as gentle as a breath and yet profoundly real, slid into his thoughts. It felt like a hand reaching out through the darkness. A hand he could not see, but unmistakably feel.
He stood there on the roof, frozen in place, his eyes locked on the endless sky, part terror, part awe. What was it? Why him? But he had no time to ask. The voice came again.
"You are not alone."
And then I saw it. The exact moment he looked up, something changed. The stars, once so distant, seemed suddenly near. One of them, brighter than all the rest, burned intensely, as if preparing to hurl itself across the heavens toward him. A tremor passed through his body. He could not look away from that radiant point, which now seemed to observe him in return.
The unseen hands he had felt became clearer now, like a soft veil caressing his skin. They were not human, and yet unmistakably present. He felt them: on his arms, his face, his brow. A touch not of this world.
"Joam, you are searching for something, aren't you?"
I remember the silence that followed. A deep, weighty silence, as though the very air itself were holding its breath. And Joam waited. He waited for the sky to answer him. Then, the voice returned, still soft, but now with a strange clarity that resonated like a bell struck in stillness.
"Why do you always look to the sky, my child?"
Joam, still reeling from the moment, opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. There was not a question on his lips, but a longing. A need. A desire, not to escape, but to understand. He remembered the countless nights he had spent beneath the stars, the quiet solitude that had accompanied every hour of his life. Suddenly, he felt very small. Fragile. Yet not in shame, but in a kind of sacred vulnerability—a childlike purity untouched by cynicism.
"I seek meaning," he whispered. "A purpose. Something to tether me to this world." His voice quivered, not with fear, but with the sheer weight of what he felt. "I don't want to be just an orphan. I want to understand why I'm here."
What happened next, I will never manage to describe in full. A light appeared—soft, almost imperceptible, but warm. It did not warm the skin, but the soul. Joam felt himself bathed in something vast and kind. A presence.
"The truth is not a straight path, Joam," the voice replied. It no longer felt like just a voice. It was something more—something universal, as though the whole night sky were speaking through it. "It lies within you. In every moment you live. In every thought you hold. Truth is found in the way you choose to see the world—and above all, in the quest you dare to pursue."
Joam closed his eyes, humbled by the immensity of it. Everything he had known—his silence, his solitude, the towering mountains—now seemed like pieces of something far greater. And he, within that vastness, was only a fragment. A single star among billions, but a star nonetheless. He was not alone. He had never truly been alone.
"But… why me?" he asked, unable to stop himself. "I'm just a boy in a monastery. Why choose me for this?"
"Because you seek, Joam," the voice replied, gentler now. "You search for what others overlook. And in the very act of seeking, you will begin to find."
And in that moment, I knew this was no dream. No illusion. That night, Joam had received something sacred. A message. A calling, in its purest sense. The sky had whispered his destiny.
"Come, Joam. Return each night. Listen, not only with your ears, but with your heart. Let yourself be led by what speaks within you."
Joam breathed deeply, and for the first time, he smiled. It was a quiet smile, the kind that belongs to someone who has just understood something profound. He didn't have all the answers. He might not have had any. But he knew now: a path had opened before him.
"I will return," he murmured, a promise offered to the stars. "I will return, each night, and I will listen."
The voice faded, carried off on the wind. Above, the stars shimmered a little brighter, as though they too had heard his vow. The sky had spoken, and Joam had found his path.
The following evening, he came back. Not a shadow of doubt in him. The promise he had made was real, and he would keep it. As night fell, he climbed once more to the rooftop. The wind was colder than before, the dark deeper, heavier. Yet Joam was undeterred. He gazed upward with quiet certainty, waiting for the voice, for the warmth, for the sign.
But that night, there was nothing.
---
The sky was as vast, as tranquil as the frozen sea that bordered the monastery, but no star turned to greet him. There was no whisper, no breath, no invisible hand that brushed against his face. The voice, the one he had heard so clearly, was absent. The emptiness of the sky seemed so immense that he could almost feel its pressure. The stars shone like indifferent, silent witnesses, as though they had forgotten what they had told him the previous night.
Joam didn't understand. Why? Why this silence after so many promises? His eyes, fixed on the stars, still searched for that glimmer that had been his, that warmth which had made him feel that he was not alone. But he found nothing. Nothing but points of light in a sea of shadow, as distant and unreachable as lost memories.
He stayed there for a long time. Perhaps an hour, perhaps two. The cold of the night crept under his clothes, but he did not move. He simply kept looking, over and over, at the same expanse of stars that no longer responded to his call.
The following days, Joam returned every evening, just as he had promised. Each evening, he climbed to the roof, always hoping to find once more what he had experienced the night before, that divine breath which had comforted him. But each time, he heard nothing. Nothing but the sound of the wind, the rustling of the trees, and the stars, frozen in their impassive silence.
He spoke to no one. He knew the monks wouldn't understand. They would talk to him about prayers, sacred teachings, the rules of the monastery. They wouldn't understand that Joam was searching for something more, something beyond rituals, beyond words. So, he remained silent, and each night, he returned to the place where he hoped to hear what the stars had to say. But, gradually, hope began to fade, like a candle that is softly blown out.
Then came Saturday, the day the rain poured down on the monastery.
It was a cold, heavy rain that seemed to last forever. The sky had closed, obscured by dark, threatening clouds. Joam climbed, as he did every evening, to the roof. But he was not the same. This time, something in him had changed, broken, like a branch bending under the weight of the storm. He was tired, exhausted by the waiting. Waiting for that voice which no longer came. He had no more words, no more answers than the void.
The raindrops struck his face, crashing against his cheeks with a gentle violence. It was as though every drop was a tear falling from the sky, a tear for a boy who waited, a tear for a promise that had not been kept. Joam closed his eyes, trying to breathe with the rhythm of the howling wind, but all he found was silence.
He sat there, his legs drawn up against his chest, his gaze lost in the darkness. The rain fell relentlessly, and he didn't even try to protect himself. He let the water soak through his clothes, drench his skin, as if that could make his sorrow disappear. But it only made it sharper, more present, that pain of losing what he had thought he had found.
The stars were hidden behind a veil of rain. The sky, which had once embraced him with infinite warmth, now seemed to push him away. And the voice... where was it? Why had it disappeared? Was it he who was not ready? Or was it the sky that had abandoned him?
Sadness filled his heart, a cold, deep sadness that anchored itself in his soul like a stone. It was a loneliness greater than anything he had known before. Before he had heard that voice. Before he had believed that the universe could offer him answers.
He lifted his eyes to the sky one last time, with the innocence of a child who still hopes for a miracle. But all he saw was a sea of black clouds, devoid of promise. The emptiness engulfed him. The rain did not stop. It beat against his heart, against his thoughts, against his dreams. And Joam let himself fall onto the roof, his arms around his knees, his face drowned in the darkness.
There was no more voice. No more light. Just the sound of the rain hitting the world around him, uninterrupted, relentless. And Joam, there, all alone, felt smaller than ever. He had believed, and he had been disappointed. The quest he had begun now seemed like madness, a child's dream. Perhaps the sky would never speak to him again.
The rain had stopped some time ago, and he stood there, on the rooftop, like a child worn out by his own dreams. He didn't know why he'd come back that night. Perhaps it was habit. Perhaps, even after all the sadness, a tiny flicker of hope still lingered, buried deep within his heart. But he no longer expected anything. There were no more promises. No more voices.
He looked up at the stars—those distant points of light that now seemed to ignore him, like indifferent witnesses to his failure. Joam let out a sigh, heavy and deep, drawn from somewhere far within. He had believed. He had hoped. And now, he was alone.
But then, something strange happened.
A tremor in the air, a faint sense of a force gathering, preparing to reveal itself. At first it was just a subtle shift. Then, slowly, the stars began to move. Joam blinked, unsure, but he was certain of what he saw: they were rearranging themselves, forming new patterns like points on a canvas being redrawn.
He watched them, spellbound, as their movement became more deliberate, more precise. One by one, the stars converged, forming a curve, a loop. They aligned like links in an invisible chain, tracing out a perfect circle in the darkness above. A circle of such purity that Joam forgot to breathe. This shape, so elegantly symmetrical, seemed to radiate a soft light—faint, yet unmistakably present. He had never seen anything like it. It was as though the sky itself was offering him a message, an answer. But what did it mean? What was this circle now etched across the heavens?
A sense of awe swept over Joam. He fell to his knees, eyes wide, his heart pounding in his chest. The silence around him deepened, as if the entire universe was waiting—for him, and him alone, to act. He lifted his arms, almost without thinking, and cried out with every ounce of his being:
"I'm here! I hear you! Don't leave me!"
His voice vanished into the vastness of the night, but within him, it echoed with fierce urgency, with a wild certainty, as if he could feel the response drawing near. His words, his prayer, were simple and desperate, but carried by a faith he thought he'd lost. His hands trembled, his eyes fixed on the circle of stars, still glowing, brighter than ever. He hoped. He prayed. He called out… It felt to him that this circle wasn't just a symbol, it was a portal, a bridge between him and the presence that had once reached out to him.
But once again, the sky gave no answer.
Joam remained there, arms raised, waiting for a miracle, a word, a breath. But nothing came. The circle of stars still shone, resplendent and perfect, but no voice, no sign, appeared. The silence of the universe, the same silence he had known for days, for weeks, fell upon him once more. Slowly, he lowered his arms, drained and bewildered.
He sat down on the rooftop, head bowed, like a child who's just lost his favourite toy. The rain wouldn't return, and the voice would not answer again. He was alone in this infinite space. More than ever, he felt like a stranger to the world—a boy who had dared to believe he could unravel the mysteries of the cosmos, only to be left with nothing but indifferent stars.
And in that silence, he felt even smaller. A trembling breath rose from his throat, like a faint breeze, a silent confession.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'm sorry I didn't understand."
Joam, without knowing why, was apologising. Apologising for having believed he deserved something, for having thought the sky would grant him what he sought. He apologised for his impatience, for his sorrow. And in that final breath, he understood—without truly understanding—that it was not the sky that had to respond. It was he who had to change.
At last, he lifted his gaze to the perfect circle of stars, and suddenly, a new clarity passed through his mind. That circle... it wasn't a promise. It wasn't an answer. It was an invitation to live differently. To see differently.
"I'll do things differently," he thought. "I'll live differently."
With his heart beating in his chest, Joam made a vow—a vow he had never dared to make before: he wished to change, to live without demanding instant answers, without waiting for signs. He wanted to embrace the world as it was, without trying to decipher its meaning at all costs.
At the exact moment those words crossed his mind, a blinding flash burst across the sky. A surge of intense, almost unreal light that seemed to tear through the darkness and flood his entire being. Joam shut his eyes, overwhelmed by the brightness, and for a split second, he thought everything around him was collapsing.
When Joam opened his eyes, he was no longer on the frozen rooftop of the monastery. He was lying in a soft bed, beneath a light blanket covered in colourful patterns. The room around him pulsed with a strange warmth—familiar, yet unfamiliar. The walls were decorated with posters he didn't immediately understand: players caught mid-action, a football suspended in the air, names shouted in bold capital letters: Mbappé, Neymar, Ronaldo. A framed yellow jersey glowed in one corner like a sacred relic. Nearby, a skateboard leaned casually against the wall, and shelves overflowed with stacks of garishly illustrated books. Big-eyed faces, fantastical battles, paper-bound adventures.
Joam sat up slowly, incredulous. He pressed his hands against the sheets: soft, almost silky, nothing like the coarse fabric of his monastic cell. He looked around, astonished. Everything here felt alive. A different kind of life. A life he had never known.
He stood, slightly unsteady, and walked to the door, which was ajar. Gently, he leaned his head into the opening. Downstairs, he could hear voices—laughter, lively conversation, people who didn't seem to be looking for him. Quick words, familiar, yet far too new. Music, faint in the background. A television, perhaps? The sounds of daily life, but a daily life that had never been his.
Suddenly dizzy, he stepped back and quietly closed the door. His breath quickened. He turned around and froze. There, on the wardrobe, hung something even more disconcerting: a mirror. At first glance, nothing unusual. But the reflection that stared back at him was not his own.
A boy stood there. A teenager. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. He wore a black tracksuit with three white stripes, chunky trainers with neon laces, and his dreadlocks framed a face Joam had never seen before. His skin was dark, his features sharp and expressive. It wasn't Joam's face, not the one he had seen every morning in the cold washbasin of his cell.
The boy in the mirror was staring back at him, just as wide-eyed. Joam slowly raised a hand. The other boy did the same. He touched his cheek. Smooth, warm skin. He touched his lips, his nose. It was real. It was him. But it wasn't him.
A quiet tremor passed through him. He stepped back, his legs suddenly heavy. His throat dry. He opened his mouth, but no words came. The world had changed. He had changed. He had no idea how, or why. Was this a dream? A punishment? A sign?
The circle of stars, the blinding flash of light: it all returned to him like a distant echo. Was this what it meant to "live differently"? Was this the answer?