The first time the sky called, it was 3:07 AM, and everything in the trailer smelled like burned sage and old pine.

 

Mae was already awake because the mountains never quite slept, not really. Her father’s old radio crackled, which was strange. She hadn’t used it since Daddy passed, and she was sure the thing wasn’t even plugged in.

 

"Lan-yu... lan-yu..."

 

She leaned in close, heart rattling. The voice was warbly, half static, half melody. Something about it poked at the back of her mind, like a forgotten birthday or the way her grandma used to hum when she canned peaches.

 

She scribbled the sound on a napkin: Lan-yu.

 

Then the signal vanished, swallowed by silence.

 

Mae didn’t tell anyone. What was she gonna say? That the night air sang her a ghost lullaby? Folks in Asheville already thought she was too quiet, too “drifty.”

 

She started climbing up the ridge every night after that. Not all the way to Craggy Dome — just far enough to get clear of the light pollution and the noise of people trying not to feel alone.

 

The second time it came, she was ready.

 

This time it wasn't the ham radio but her own mouth, speaking the phrase in her sleep. She woke up mid-syllable, breath fogging in the autumn chill. Something lit up behind her eyes — a memory not her own. A field of tall, glimmering reeds. A sky with two moons. The sound of someone laughing and crying at once.

 

It was beautiful.

 

The next night she climbed higher. At the ridge’s edge, the wind howled like it had lungs. The air shimmered and bent. Her skin pulled tight with static.

 

Then the ground split. A crack in the stone, glowing faintly blue.

 

"Lan-yu," she said again. Not a question. An invitation.

 

She stepped closer.

 

The light surged into her and through her. And for a moment Mae saw herself from above. Tiny. Flickering. But also ancient. And known.

 

When she came to, it was morning.

 

Back home, she washed her face. Her eyes… her eyes were wrong. Not just the color. They were deeper, sharper, like looking at two skies at once.

 

She couldn’t hear birds anymore, but she felt them. She couldn’t speak English easily, not at first. The only word that came easily was the one she didn’t understand at all.

 

Lan-yu.

 

She tried to go home, but it didn’t feel like hers now. People stared too long. Windows and mirrors rippled.

 

Whatever the sky had called her to do, it wasn’t finished.

 

So she packed a bag, kissed the trailer goodbye, and headed west toward the next signal.

 

Mae had heard the stars. Now she would join them.