Carlos Llanos Writing

When the Stars Fall

I offer this message with my deepest regrets and a heavy heart. If you are hearing these words, please understand — we have failed. We failed ourselves, and perhaps the universe. I send this communication into the void not as a call for help, but as a final warning, and a desperate hope that your world might be spared the fate of mine.

It began in the silence of space, near the orbit of our alien homeworld. A brilliant orb of light appeared suddenly, far above our atmosphere. We observed it — too curious, too confident. We thought ourselves wise, prepared. But what we saw was not salvation nor discovery. It was the end. The orb fell toward our surface, erratic and incomprehensibly fast. It danced across the sky in multiple places at once, defying the logic of physics and reason. And when it finally landed, a blinding shockwave erupted across the landscape, a herald of devastation.

We are lost. Soon, nothing will remain but dust and echoes. Fear the brightest stars in your sky, for when they fall, everything dies.

I am Learned Preceptor Lan Altreul. I document this in hope it may aid the living. I was part of a scientific expedition dispatched to investigate the anomaly. Our planet had encountered alien life before — political disputes, minor conflicts with neighboring species — but never something like this.

Nothing so ravenous. Nothing so utterly without reason or restraint.

As the object approached our populated areas, our combat forces mobilized. They attempted to defend our largest cities, setting up defensive perimeters. Yet it seemed drawn to us — to life, to density, to consciousness itself.

Eyewitnesses described the entity that emerged from the orb as a small bipedal being, not unlike a child. It was surrounded by a volatile vortex of shimmering energy. Wherever it went, matter disintegrated, reduced to dust. The vortex grew larger as it moved.

We recorded readings of the energy field — it was incompatible with any form of organic life. An unstable fusion of cosmic forces, unpredictable and lethal. We approached the anomaly with extreme caution — researchers in homeostasis suits, armed combat teams, advanced plasma weapons. None of it mattered.

At the edge of the vortex, a tunnel appeared — an invitation, it seemed. The entity allowed us to enter. As we progressed deeper, we watched the molecular structure of vegetation tear apart before our eyes. The energy released from this disintegration fed into the swirling vortex surrounding us.

Soon, members of my team began to succumb. Our weapons exploded, killing several in the blasts. Researchers grew ill, then hysterical. They screamed of their minds being drained, their consciousness leeched away. And then they fell — silent, lifeless, their bodies torn asunder by the anomaly’s force.

Somehow, I alone remained. I pressed on, toward the center.

The heart of the anomaly was quiet — calm, like the eye of a storm. At its center floated the child-like being. Its form was luminous, its body composed of radiant light from a source I couldn’t identify. It was beautiful in a way that defied description. I did not approach. I only observed, in awe.

Then it looked at me.

Its gaze pierced through me. I could not move. Its eyes contained stars, collapsing and birthing themselves in an endless cycle. It waved, as if to greet me. It spoke — softly, kindly. It welcomed me. I understood it, somehow. It spoke no known language, yet I understood every word.

I introduced myself. I thanked it for the opportunity to speak. It said it required a gesture of trust — that I remove my helmet. Against every logical instinct, I complied. I should have died. The conditions inside the anomaly should have shredded my organs. But I did not die.

I asked about its origins. It said it came from a distant galaxy, from a world it called Er’F. Its species was known as the H’Mah. But this being — this boy — was not typical of his kind. His abilities were unnatural, a consequence of something that had taken hold of him.

He spoke calmly. Our conversation felt almost... pleasant. But as I asked his name, the peaceful atmosphere trembled.

He spoke alongside a second voice — deeper, resonant, coming from the vortex itself. In unison they said: "My name is Ya’el. My name is GOD."

I was shaken. I tried to regain my composure, to continue the dialogue. I made the mistake of asking about his parents.

That was the moment everything changed.

His face twisted into something horrific — not rage, not grief, but utter devastation made flesh. A being of entropy. He erupted in a storm of motion and sound, repeating a single word: "GONE!"

He moved faster than anything I had ever seen — so fast he appeared to be in several places at once. In that instant, I understood: we had seen several stars fall. But there had only ever been one entity.

He struggled. For a moment, it seemed as though the boy and the force within him fought each other. His body blurred, fractured across space and time. And then the rage consumed him — and everything around him.

I tried to flee. I failed.

I remember only pain and fear. I was torn apart. Perhaps I died. I cannot be certain. But somehow, I awoke — in the central chamber of our planetary government. I was in agony. They told me much time had passed. The entity had destroyed an entire city. I had been presumed dead.

I told them what I’ve told you. Some called me mad. Some doubted my identity. They asked how I survived when the rest of my team perished. I had no answer.

I begged them to evacuate. To flee to the farthest stars. To abandon our world. They would not listen. They lied to themselves to preserve their sanity.

When I was dragged from the council chambers, I understood — my truth was too heavy for them to bear. Just as it may be for you. But I say again, with all that I am: please do not repeat our mistakes.

My body, by then, was beginning to destabilize. I phased through the guards, dropped to my knees. My spirit broke. My world was dying. I would never hold my children again.

I ran to find my family. I found only a note.

My son had joined the military — loyal and brave like his father. He died defending a city already lost. Not killed. Destroyed. Obliterated from existence.

My wife and daughter had been evacuated to a shelter. But the entity decimated that too. I don’t know if they survived. I can only hope.

We unleashed every weapon we had. Giant mechanical soldiers, plasma bombs, energy lances. All were consumed. The more we resisted, the more we fed its hunger.

Then, panic. The skies filled with ships — refugees abandoning our home. I pray my wife and daughter were among them, though I have no reason to believe they were. The sky has been black ever since.

I speak to you now from the brink of extinction.

I have been shattered, remade, hollowed. And yet, that pain pales before the loss of my loved ones. Why I still live, I cannot say. Perhaps it is mere chance. Perhaps Ya’el, or whatever force dwells within him, chose to let me live.

Our weapons are gone. Our cities are gone. Our heroes are gone. We are nothing.

So I send this warning to all who may hear: neighbors, allies, enemies — your differences do not matter. Not against this. Hold your loved ones close. Pray that your stars never fall.

And if any of my kin still live — please, forgive us. We meant no harm. We were only curious.

And now, all that remains is a dead world, drained of light, floating silently in the void.

Somewhere in that silence, a glowing child drifts through space. Alone. Watching. Waiting.

Another world awaits him.