The winter winds howled outside, whispering through the gaps in the city’s towering structures, a haunting lulby carried on the breath of a world wrapped in frost. Inside, cocooned in the warmth of heavy bnkets, Ezra y confined to his bed, his body caught in the grip of fever. His head ached, his limbs felt like lead, and every breath came with the weight of exhaustion.The fever pressed down on Ezra like a leaden weight, his body caught in a relentless cycle of burning heat and bone-deep chills. His skin felt too tight, his limbs heavy, as if gravity had doubled just for him. Sweat dampened his brow, yet he shivered beneath the yers of bnkets his father had tucked around him. His head throbbed with a dull, unrelenting ache, each pulse a reminder of his body’s ongoing battle. His throat, raw and scratchy, protested even the smallest swallow, and the simple act of breathing felt like dragging air through sandpaper.

  The worst part wasn’t the pain, though—it was the exhaustion. The kind that seeped into his very bones, making every blink a fight to stay present. His mind drifted in and out of focus, thoughts slipping like water through his fingers. Even watching the fireworks on the screen felt like a monumental effort, his vision blurring as he forced himself to stay awake. He wanted to be part of the world outside, to feel the excitement, the celebration—but instead, he was trapped in his own fevered haze, every moment stretching endlessly, every second marked by the rhythmic pounding of his pulse in his skull.

  The golden glow of the bedside mp cast soft shadows across the room, illuminating the modest yet well-kept space. A half-empty bowl of broth sat on the nightstand, steam curling upward like a ghost dissipating into the dim light. His father, Seth, sat beside him, his steady presence a silent anchor against the discomfort of illness.

  Seth wasn’t the kind of man to fuss, but there was a quiet attentiveness in the way he adjusted the covers when Ezra shivered, in the way he refilled his cup without being asked, and in the way he sat patiently, never once letting his son feel alone. Outside, the world carried on without them—celebrations, ughter, and the distant hum of excitement—but within these walls, time moved differently, measured not by festivities but by the slow rise and fall of Ezra’s breath.

  Tonight was special, even if Ezra was too sick to fully enjoy it. The New Year’s space elevator drop—the grandest spectacle of the season—was unfolding high above the pnet, a dazzling dispy of human ingenuity and ambition. Thousands gathered at the base of the towering elevator, their breath misting in the cold as they craned their necks to watch the descent. The massive transport, carrying dignitaries, dreamers, and those seeking a fresh start, glided downward from the orbital station, a sleek titan of steel and gss against the ink-bck sky.

  Ezra couldn’t be there in person. He could barely sit up. But even through the feverish haze, he found himself captivated by the broadcast pying on the room’s dispy screen. The fireworks ignited in synchronized bursts, an explosion of colors that stretched across the heavens, reflecting off the sleek panels of the descending elevator. It was as if the stars themselves had been set alight, each flickering ember a fleeting wish burning against the vastness of space.

  The colors danced in Ezra’s tired eyes, the brilliance of the moment cutting through his feverish state. He felt the bed shift slightly as his father eased onto the mattress beside him, a steady hand coming to rest gently on his shoulder. Ezra leaned into his father’s warmth, feeling the solid reassurance of the man who had always been his guidepost, his unwavering constant.

  For a long moment, they simply watched. The glow of the fireworks casting shifting patterns across the walls. Then, in that way only fathers can, Seth spoke—not to fill the silence, but because some words were meant to be given in quiet moments like this.

  “You know, Ezra,” he began, his voice low and calm, a river smoothing the edges of stones with each sylble, “life’s gonna throw a lot at you. Some days, it’ll feel easy—like those fireworks up there, just lighting up the sky, no trouble at all.”

  Ezra blinked slowly, his fevered mind drifting somewhere between exhaustion and crity. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. Seth knew he was listening.

  “But other days?” His father exhaled softly, his grip on Ezra’s shoulder tightening just a fraction. “It’ll be like climbing that space elevator all alone, with no end in sight. Step after step, higher and higher, feeling like you’re getting nowhere.”

  Ezra swallowed, his throat dry, but he stayed silent. There was something about the way his father spoke—not just words, but experience, the weight of a man who had seen hard days, who had climbed his own endless elevator.

  Seth’s gaze remained on the screen, the flickering lights reflecting in his dark eyes. “Here’s the thing, kid,” he continued, “it’s not the easy days that make you who you are. It’s the tough ones. The ones that push you to your limits. The ones where you feel like you can’t take another step, but you do anyway. Those are the days that matter most.”

  Ezra’s eyelids fluttered. His head felt heavy, the warmth of his father’s arm grounding him even as exhaustion pulled at him. He didn’t understand all of it yet—not fully—but something in his father’s words burrowed deep, embedding itself in the fabric of his being.

  Seth finally turned to look at him, his expression softening. “And listen, Ezra,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “when things get hard—really hard—don’t fight the world. Listen to it. Sometimes, the answers aren’t in your head. They’re in what’s happening around you. If you can stop, pay attention, and listen, you’ll always find a way forward.”

  Outside, the fireworks reached their climax, the sky abze with a final, breathtaking cascade of colors. Inside, the room grew still, save for the quiet hum of the heater and the faint, rhythmic sound of Ezra’s breathing.

  Seth gave his son’s shoulder one st squeeze, a silent reassurance before leaning back against the headboard. “You’re gonna be okay, Ezra,” he murmured. “Just remember—look up, even when it’s tough. Don’t let the hard days win.”

  And with that, the words settled. Not as fleeting advice, but as something more—something Ezra would carry with him long after the fever faded, long after the fireworks became nothing more than a memory.

  Because in that quiet space, amidst the glow of the screen and the warmth of his father’s presence, Ezra understood something deeper than words alone.

  Some lessons aren’t just told.

  They are felt.

  And this moment, this lesson—wrapped in warmth and whispered in the glow of dying fireworks—was one he would never forget.

  Ezra y buried under bnkets, fever clinging to him like a second skin. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the walkie-talkie, bringing it to his mouth.

  "This is Space Cadet Ezra, calling Mission Control. Do you copy?"

  A pause. Then, static crackled before Julie’s voice came through, ced with amusement.

  "Mission Control here. You sound awful, Cadet."

  "Yeah, well, fever’s got me in its grip. The soup’s turned against me. If I don’t make it, tell my father I fought bravely."

  Julie snorted. "Taken out by soup. That’s tragic."

  Ezra smirked, shifting weakly. He didn’t expect her to answer tonight—she was probably at some fancy party, surrounded by people who never worried about things like scraped-together credits. But here she was.

  "You know," he murmured, "people think you’re just some rich daddy’s girl."

  Julie was quiet for a moment. "I know."

  "I never did. I saw you."

  Her voice softened. "And you don’t act like some scrappy space rat. So I guess we’re even."

  Ezra smiled. "Tell me something weird you love."

  Julie hummed. "The sound of rain on gss."

  "Huh. That’s nice."

  "Your turn, nerd."

  "Bck holes," Ezra said without hesitation. "The way they bend light. Time slows near them. It’s like the universe wrote a cheat code."

  Julie didn’t ugh. She listened. "You really love this stuff."

  "Yeah. I know it’s weird."

  "No," she said. "I think it’s kind of sweet."

  Ezra swallowed. No one had ever called it that before.

  "You know," Julie mused, "people don’t have to like the same things to understand each other. You love space. I love rain. But maybe… we love them for the same reason."

  Ezra blinked. "That’s actually profound."

  "I have my moments," she teased. "Now get some rest, Cadet. Mission Control will be here when you wake up."

  Ezra smiled as sleep pulled him under, knowing that somewhere out there, someone was listening.