At 2:17 AM, Cylus’s phone buzzed. He squinted at the text from the unknown number. It read, “Soon, you will be a star.”

He chuckled, his British accent filling the silence in the room. “Finally, the universe recognizes talent,” he muttered, glancing at the constellation map above his bed. Cylus had always dreamed of velvet curtains, a booming spotlight, and himself at the center ring, ringmaster of the greatest show on earth. 

The problem? He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to become one. No circus training, no performers, not even a hat fancy enough. Yet the text — it felt wondrous. Maybe destiny was in the form of messages now. 

So, he practiced. Every night, he rehearsed introductions to invisible crowds, twirling a broom as his cane. His humor filled the empty room, his voice echoing like a man born to command. Still, doubt lingered, how could a dreamer with no stage invent a place among legends? 

On the fifth night, his phone buzzed again. 

“It is time.”

The shadows in his room shifted. A figure stepped forward, the gleam of starlight forming around them. Cylus tried to laugh, but his throat caught. 

“Wait, do you mean star as in —”

Their hand pressed to his chest. His vision burned white, his flesh dissolving into sparks. His screams broke into a thousand fragments of light that rose into the heavens.