A streak of silver lit the darkness. And another. They burst through the skyscape, the briefest waterfall of light. Again and again. Reminding him that he was a dot on the earth, that the world would still turn when he was dead and buried.

Fletcher recorded his observations in his notepad, taking his time, trying to rein in the gallop of his heart, but it was no use. He could sense the flutter of rising panic. During the day, he could button it up and hold it in. But in the small hours, when the world softened and held its breath, their faces taunted him.

He lifted his telescope and stared up at the sky.

The wisps of beauty anchored him. Layers of bright hope in the darkness, the highest clouds in the Earth’s atmosphere. When he was logging his findings, he went to great pains to use the correct scientific terminology. He liked things done properly. But he made an exception for this particular type of cloud phenomena because he loved it so much.

Night shining clouds.

His gaze stretched to the street. It was quiet and dark, save for the ugly glow of the streetlamps. So intrusive. He hated the way they polluted his nightscape, had even considered throwing a rock and smashing the bulb. He’d have done it, too, if he weren’t so worried about drawing attention to himself.

He scanned the hulking shapes of the cars in their driveways. The indistinct masses of bushes and trees. The sheer ordinariness of the street. But a light burned inside him. Waiting, that’s what it felt like. For something to happen.

He turned his attention back to the telescope. The stars were clear and watchful. They did not judge. They did not point and laugh and accuse. They just were.

Time flowed into itself when he was studying the sky in all her glory; great chunks of it passed without his knowledge. That often happened to him. Sometimes, he would come to and find that he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing. It was a worry.

The hoot of an owl distracted him, dragged his gaze from the sky to the street. A movement caught his attention. He leaned forward, trying to get a better look.

Blood thundered in his veins.

The new woman from across the road was standing on her driveway by her car.

His brow furrowed. It was late, past three a.m. He peered through his telescope. She was wearing a long T-shirt and a silky dressing gown with poppies on it that had fallen open at the front. One of its pockets was hanging low, as if it held something heavy. He focused his telescope. Small and rectangular, most likely a mobile phone. In her right hand, she carried a set of car keys. It looked like she was crying. He dithered for a split second, uncertain what to do.

He mustn’t.