When I was 13, my grandmother Daisy taught me that stars weren’t just balls of gas — they were storytellers, just like her. Every evening, we’d sit on her porch with chamomile tea as she pointed out constellations and told me their legends, weaving them with our family history. Those nights sparked my lifelong love of astronomy, but more importantly, they deepened my bond with her.

At 15, I learned she had terminal cancer. The doctors gave her six months. That same night, she handed me a journal with starmaps and stories, labeled “For Justin.” She began recording both family memories and fictional constellations representing her hopes for my future — The Scholar, The Lover, The Father. As she grew weaker, she asked me to help her finish the journal when she no longer could. It was a promise I never broke.

Grandma Daisy passed away under Orion’s watchful sky, as she’d wished. Her final words: “Look for me in Cassiopeia… I’ll be the bright star in the queen’s crown.”

I inherited her house at 17 and continued our stargazing tradition. I went on to study astrophysics, marry someone who shared my wonder for the universe, and have a daughter, Phoebe, who now sits beside me asking about the stars — just like I once did.

Each night, I read from Grandma’s journal and add stories of my own. One page shows a new constellation: The Dreamer — a little girl reaching for the stars. It’s for Phoebe.

As meteors streak across the sky, I feel my grandmother’s presence in every shimmer of starlight. Her love still burns bright in Cassiopeia, guiding us — a timeless promise passed from one generation to the next.