Kiran is a security guard. One fine day, he was on his night shift. While other security guards passed the time scrolling on their phones or sleeping behind desks, Kiran watched the sky, the beautiful night sky.
Every evening at the observatory where he worked, he would unlock the dome, settle beside the telescope, and let silence paint stories. “Sound travels differently at night,” he would say, sipping his tea, eyes closed.
At first, the staff found him strange. A man who had a sleeping disorder. But what they didn’t know was that Kiran had once dreamed of becoming an astronomer. A tragic childhood—his brother passed away in a meteor shower. The stars had brought him sorrow, not awe.
He came back decades later.
One autumn night, something changed. The sky above Kerla pulsed blue—an unregistered abnormality. The system didn’t log it. No other observatory reported it. But Kiran heard it. A hum. A pattern. Almost…a voice.
He taped the sound on a reel-to-reel that was old and spent weeks analyzing it. Not noise. Morse code.
One word: “Forgiven.”
Chills ran down his spine. He hadn’t told anyone how he would blame himself for the trip that took his brother. No one knew he had held onto that guilt through marriages, through aging, through a lifetime of silence.
Now the stars had answered.
He placed the tape inside the telescope's drawer, where it still remains. Not for science. Not for proof. For peace.
Years later, when the observatory opened its new wing, a plaque was placed beside the telescope: “To Kiran, who heard what others missed.”
Visitors often ask what it means. Guides simply smile. But sometimes, late at night, if you step quietly into the dome and close your eyes…you just might hear something that wasn’t meant for words.
By Yal Enniyan S K