Part I: The Sky Splits Open

Part I: The Sky Splits Open

You’ve seen the Northern Lights before—just wisps of green hanging over the mountains, like nature’s screensaver. But last night? Last night was impossible.

It started after sunset. The sky didn’t shimmer—it roared to life. Sheets of violet and orange streaked overhead like spilled ink. Emerald sparks rained down over rooftops, glowing so bright you could see your reflection on the sidewalk. Every pigeon on your balcony stopped preening and stared straight up, mesmerized. So did you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t sleep. You stood on your balcony until the sun finally broke over the mountains, turning the aurora’s last threads into mist. When you finally stepped back inside, something felt different. Not just in the sky. In you.

You floated through your morning like you’d stepped out of gravity. By the time you pulled yourself together and headed outside, the whole city was buzzing with the same electric weirdness.

Mrs. Takahashi was in the hallway with her poodle, Bijou, tucked under one arm. She didn’t say hello. Just smiled knowingly and said, “You saw it, didn’t you?”

You nodded. “I couldn’t stop watching.”

She chuckled. “Neither could Bijou. The news called it a once-in-a-ten-thousand-year event. Scientists are still baffled.”

The streets were full of chatter—people retelling the aurora like it was a shared dream they weren’t ready to wake up from. You walked your usual path, cutting through Cherry Blossom Park, where the petals had long since fallen. But the birds were louder than ever, like they were gossiping about the sky.

And that’s when you saw it.

A bronze disc, no bigger than your palm, embedded perfectly into the old stone wall by the park exit. It wasn’t there yesterday. You knew this spot—you leaned against this wall almost every morning, sipping coffee, checking your phone.

But there it was. A small medallion, etched with the image of a curled-up squirrel.

You reached out and touched it.

Nothing happened.

You weren’t sure what you expected, but… maybe something. The metal was warm. Familiar. Like it had been waiting.

Then: “Finally!”

The voice came from above.

You jumped.

Perched on a cedar branch was a squirrel, small and twitchy, eyes wide with theatrical frustration.

“Finally,” he repeated. “I’ve been rehearsing this moment all week. Or a month? Time gets weird when solar flares are involved.”

You blinked. “You’re a… squirrel.”

“Technically,” he said, “I’m an Eastern gray squirrel. But you may call me Reginald Tobias Featherstone IV.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of name for a squirrel.”

He puffed up. “My mother had aspirations. My father had a thesaurus.”

Before you could speak, he scurried down the trunk and landed beside the medallion with a showman’s flair. He tapped it with one tiny paw.

“There. You touched it. Now you can hear me. That’s how it works. Touch the medallion, break the silence.”

You stared. “Why me?”

“Because you listened,” he said. “The animals have things to say. Opinions. Histories. Grievances. And now—for reasons I’m sure a marmot could explain in more philosophical terms—you can hear us.”

He darted around the medallion, gesturing wildly. “See the edge? Tiny marks. Each one a clue. This medallion points to others. And you need to find them.”

You crouched. The markings were faint but deliberate—like compass ticks or runes.

“How many are there?” you asked.

“Enough,” Reginald said, tail flicking. “Find one, and more reveal themselves. That’s how the world works now. The more you find, the more the world wakes up.”

You hesitated. “And if I find them all?”

Reginald blinked, twitched, and shrugged. “Some say the universe resets. Some say we ascend to a council of interspecies enlightenment and snacks. Skunk says the atoms explode at the speed of light. I think he’s being dramatic.”

A shadow passed overhead. Reginald screamed, “HAWK!” and bolted halfway up the tree, then peeked down.

“Will I be able to talk to birds too?”

“Birds?” he scoffed. “Feathered thieves. They gossip, they steal, and they poop with intent. No, the medallions are for mammals. Warm-blooded. Insightful. Handsome conversationalists.”

You opened your mouth to ask more, but Reginald was already halfway up the cedar.

“Find the next one,” he called. “It’s waiting. Just like I was.”

Then he vanished into the leaves, leaving you beside a quiet bronze medallion, a rippling sky memory, and a secret you could no longer unknow.