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“Stars, Rain, and an Old Friend” is a quiet, reflective short story that weaves astronomy, memory, and human disconnection into a touching narrative. Through the eyes of Herald, a recently retired amateur astronomer, the story explores how people drift apart, how the past lingers just below the surface of everyday life, and how moments of recognition—real or imagined—can shake us more deeply than we expect.

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“Stars, Rain, and an Old Friend”

By Harry Arabian

I’ve been a backyard stargazer ever since I signed up for Introduction to Astronomy back in ninth grade—Mr. Albert Halle’s class. He was our physics teacher, the kind who made stars feel close and planets feel like neighbors. That class planted a seed that lay dormant for decades—until now. Retired and living just a few miles from Griffith Observatory, I signed up as a volunteer Astronomy Guide.

The observatory staff seemed amused at my enthusiasm. Sensing my sky-gazing dedication, they slotted me for two back-to-back shifts: Friday and Saturday, 5 to 10 p.m. My wife, Marie, was more than fine with the arrangement. “Volunteering has its benefits,” she said with a sly smile as she claimed the flat-screen TV for her Friday night lineup.

“Friday and Saturday nights?” she added, barely holding back a laugh. “I’m guessing they had trouble finding volunteers for those shifts.”

“Why would they?” I asked innocently. “Constellations, planets, and stars shine every night.”

She gave me a look. “You’re an astro-kid from the East, helpless. Do I have to spell everything out? Friday and Saturday are date nights at the Observatory.”

I grinned. “I see Hollywood High taught you a few things.” That got us both laughing.

My orientation started in January. I met Bob, the current volunteer I’d be replacing. A senior at USC, majoring in Astronomy. He was energetic, humorous, and clearly ready to pass the torch.

“I read your volunteer letter,” Bob said, “and you’re overqualified. Let me show you the essentials.” He pointed at the large red switch on the projector table. “This turns the planetarium show on. Green button here plays it. Then,” he tapped the seat next to the console, “you sit for 35 minutes, get ready for questions, and improvise for the rest.”

I chuckled. “Easy enough.”

Bob smiled, already looking at his watch. “I’ve got a date in 30 minutes at the Farmers Market.”

“She’s from the planetarium show, isn’t she?” I teased.

He blinked. “How’d you guess?”

“My wife warned me,” I said, laughing. That was the last I saw of Bob.

Each evening began with the same routine. At 5:30, I’d flick the red switch, then press green. The planetarium sprang to life, casting a blanket of stars over wide-eyed visitors. The hard part came after—answering their questions. Some were easy: “What’s the brightest star?” Others made me dig into the deep vaults of memory—Mr. Halle’s diagrams, constellations, Greek myths.

Then came that April Friday. The sky was heavy and overcast. I arrived early, 4:30 p.m., to find a crowd of disappointed teenagers at the gate. A white sign explained it all: Closed Due to Bad Weather.

With nothing else to do, I headed back to my car, planning to surprise Marie. Just then, my phone buzzed. Weather Alert: Take Safe Shelter – 5 p.m. to 12 a.m.

I decided to take the back roads through Glendale. The rain hadn’t started yet. Quiet ride. Then another buzz—missed call. A familiar number. At the next red light, I checked: Ken.

Ken, my old classmate from back East. We’d last spoken fifteen years ago at the Vons checkout line. Never crossed paths again.

I called back. He answered, uncertain.

“Hey Ken, it’s Herald—returning your call.”

“Oh! Hey… I didn’t mean to call, maybe my phone glitched. I’m at the Glendale Public Library right now,” he said, voice hushed.

“I’m literally driving past it!” I laughed. “There’s a spot open—I’ll swing by and say hi.”

Before I could hear his reply, the line went dead. Bad signal, I figured.

The parking lot was deserted. Another sign: Library Closed Due to Bad Weather. I turned to leave when I passed a man on the bench near the entrance. Ragged coat, distant eyes.

“Library’s closed,” he said softly.

“Thanks,” I nodded. “I’ll head out before the downpour.”

He gave a thin smile. “Good luck, pal.”
And scratched his chin—the way Ken used to when he was thinking in Algebra class.

The rain started right then, sudden and loud. I got into the car as the sky cracked open. On came the wipers. I tuned in to KPFK for a weather update, but the DJ had other plans—CCR’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” filled the car. Melancholy, haunting, familiar. A song about disillusionment and something fading just out of reach.

That voice. The timing. The library. Good luck, pal. The gesture. It hit me—I might’ve just seen Ken. Not heard from him in fifteen years, and maybe I missed him right in front of me. Or maybe I didn’t miss him, and just didn’t recognize him at all.

When I got home, Marie was deep into Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. She looked up, startled.

“Fired already?” she joked.

“What makes you say that?”

She peered at me. “Go look in the mirror. You’re pale. Either you were in an accident or you were fired.”

“Remember Ken from back East? We saw him at Vons?”

“The guy with that unfriendly wife?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“I think I saw him again. Or maybe I didn’t. I think… he might be homeless now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think you saw him? Sounds like one of your astronomy theories—like the Moon’s a projection made by aliens or something.”

I smiled faintly, still not sure what I’d seen.

Later that night, I stepped out onto the porch. The clouds had parted just enough to show one bright star—low, quiet, and alone.