Once upon a time…

They called him Jaro, a ship-hand with a clear heart. He joined a crew of mutineers after their captain sold rations for gold. They fled through the black, following the old drift-lines that pilots whisper about, the ones that hum like bees around derelict moons.

There was a custom among miners near the cobalt rings: on the seventh orbit, they released “kindling lights,” tiny lanterns that drifted until they found a home for the lost. Jaro believed in that. The mutineers laughed, but hunger makes hope useful.

They reached a silent station, doors frost-stiff, crops dead. Only the vents sang. The mutineers wanted fuel and ran for the vaults. Jaro stayed at the dome and set free a jar of kindling lights he had kept since youth. The lights did not drift; they swarmed and pressed against one bulkhead like bees pointing the way.

He followed and found children asleep behind a jammed door, thin and quiet. He called the mutineers. They came, cursing, but carried the small ones aboard.

Later, the crew chose Jaro as captain. The old captain’s gold meant little beside a course lit by lights that always pointed home.