Up in his attic, the astronomer observed both the heavens and the denizens. The celestial bodies overseeing both the miserable and the elated, without discrimination, nor with benevolence.

And the astronomer found that every night, he was not the only one observing the deep blue sea in the sky, admiring the bright jellyfish soaring slowly through the endless expanse. From hopeful young children to the sad war veteran, many people stared up at the night sky. The difference between him and them was that he studied the sky for a living, they studied it for life.

One night, the astronomer heard little whisps of a boy's hope. In that tiny yet significantly booming voice he asked, he pleaded, "Please cure my sadness". The astronomer looked down and in his yard was the malnourished looking boy. He couldn't have been no older than twelve but even so, he was wishing for happiness. They both admired the same star, away from the constellations, the smallest yet brightest. The most enduring, yet the least impressive. The perfect definition for a lucky star.

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Down inside the dumpster, the boy hid. It smelled like what he thought the dead smelled like after several days of rotting without enough love. It was appropriate. The people who sent him out both declared him dead and unlovable.

Yet he was alive, in the garbage. Yet he felt warm, in that forgotten place. He felt grateful, yet hungry.

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The boy would peek out from his smelly castle, and found fresh food and clean clothes. There was naught but a note, *"From your lucky star"