The next morning, Elias skipped his routine.
No two cups of coffee brewed at six sharp, no meticulous notes scribbled on orbital mechanics before class. Instead, he walked back to the gallery. He told himself it was curiosity, an intellectual urge to understand this woman who named her car after celestial fire. But if he was honest—something he avoided as habit—he simply wanted to see her again.
The gallery door was propped open, letting in the sharp autumn air. Claire stood outside, wrestling with the hood of the old rust-colored car. The word Comet, hand-painted across the metal, gleamed faintly under a wash of sunlight.
Elias paused on the sidewalk. For a man who lived his life by predictability, it was strange to feel pulled by gravity stronger than the stars he charted.
“You’re back,” Claire said without looking up. Her voice carried equal parts amusement and inevitability, as though she had expected him all along.
“Apparently,” Elias answered. “You named your car after a comet?”
“Not just a comet.” She wiped her hands on a rag and leaned against the bumper. “The Comet. The first car I ever bought. Broke down the day I drove it off the lot. But it kept coming back to life, like it had a soul that refused to quit. Reminded me of something rare, something worth waiting for.”
Elias studied the flaking paint, the crooked bumper. “It doesn’t look… reliable.”
Claire grinned. “Neither are comets. That’s the point.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. He didn’t know how to argue with metaphors. Numbers, yes. Data, yes. But this woman—she made the world bend toward poetry with every word.
“You’re a scientist, right?” she asked. “Equations, facts, all that?”
“Guilty.”
“Then tell me,” she said, eyes glinting. “What’s a comet, really?”
He recited without hesitation, as though from muscle memory. “A comet is an icy body composed of dust and frozen gases. When it approaches the sun, it heats up, releasing gas and dust that form a glowing coma and a tail. Most orbit the sun in elongated paths. Predictable. Chartable.”
Claire tilted her head. “Predictable, huh?”
“Yes,” Elias said. “They follow laws of motion like everything else.”
“Then why didn’t you know it was coming?” she asked softly.
He faltered.
She smiled, triumphant but not unkind. “See, that’s the difference between us. You think comets are just ice and gas. I think they’re miracles. Fireworks from the universe reminding us to look up once in a while.”
Elias bristled, though a part of him envied her certainty. “Miracles don’t exist. Everything can be explained.”
“Not everything,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here talking to me.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The air hummed with something Elias couldn’t quantify.
Finally, Claire grabbed her keys and jingled them in the air. “Come on. You’ve seen the comet in the sky. Time to ride in the one on the ground.”
Before he could protest, she slid into the driver’s seat. The car coughed, sputtered, then roared alive with a sound like rebellion.
Elias hesitated. Logic screamed at him to walk away. But another voice, quieter and older, whispered: What if this is why you saw it?
He opened the passenger door and climbed in.
The Comet rattled down back roads, its engine growling, the dashboard trembling with every bump. Claire drove like the world belonged to her, one hand on the wheel, hair whipping in the wind.
“Where are we going?” Elias asked.
“Nowhere,” she said. “Everywhere.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She laughed. “Neither was yours about miracles.”
They drove past fields washed in gold, leaves catching fire in the late sun. Elias stared out the window, unmoored. For once, he wasn’t analyzing the angle of light, the velocity of clouds. He was simply seeing.
Claire pulled over at a ridge overlooking the city. Below them, lights flickered on one by one, constellations stitched into the earth. She cut the engine and leaned against the hood.
Elias joined her reluctantly, adjusting his tie as if the stars cared.
“You look uncomfortable,” Claire said.
“This isn’t… usually how I spend my evenings.”
“Then maybe your evenings need work.” She gestured to the sky. “Do you ever just… watch?”
“I watch plenty. Telescopes. Data logs. Star trackers.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I mean watch. Without measuring. Without explaining. Just be with it.”
Elias followed her gaze upward. The heavens stretched endlessly, black velvet pierced with diamonds. For the first time in his life, he didn’t list constellations. He didn’t calculate distances. He just… looked.
And something inside him shifted.
“You felt it too, didn’t you?” Claire whispered.
He turned. “Felt what?”
“The comet.” Her eyes gleamed like they had stolen the starlight. “It wasn’t just ice and gas. It was… meaning. Direction. Like the universe was telling you: wake up.”
Elias wanted to deny it. He wanted to retreat into equations. But the memory burned too brightly. He couldn’t lie.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I felt it.”
Claire’s smile was soft, almost sad. “Then you understand why I named my car after it. Things like that… they don’t come around often. When they do, you hold on.”
The wind whipped between them, carrying the scent of autumn leaves.
For a moment, Elias thought she might lean closer. He thought he might let her. But she turned away, sliding off the hood and starting the engine again.
“Come on, professor,” she said. “The night’s not over.”
As they rattled back toward the city, Elias realized he was no longer sure which comet had changed his life: the one blazing across the sky, or the one driving beside him with paint on her jeans and fire in her voice.