“There is more, ladies and gentlemen,” said a voice. “If you look left, you will see the beautiful constellation Lyra.” Everyone gasped as they turned. It was the most beautiful constellation Karl had ever seen. The closeness, the elegant majesty, the gold immensity and symmetry of the harp and the somehow eloquent brilliance of the great star Vega, fourth brightest in the sky, was more than captivating. It was stunning. In its simplicity, it was complex.

Karl knew he could never tire of this sight and would never forget it. Lyra had always commanded interest from his perch behind his house on Earth, but here, in its overwhelming dimension, Lyra outshone everything he had ever known. Karl could almost hear her music. Her presence was commanding.

Inside the observation car there was complete and utter silence. Somehow, there seemed to be little need for any sound. The vision of Lyra was eloquent enough. But then, there was a sound. Karl had never heard anything quite like before. It was faint, yet clear and overpowering. It was completely and fully harmonic. It was soft and unimposing. Then the voice of Lyra. Karl knew. It seemed to come from within.

“I am Lyra,” said the lovely voice. “I am comfort, beauty, truth! John Keats said it. Beauty is truth, truth beauty. All you know on Earth, all you need to know. Look to me in the fullness of summer, think of me, so far away, as I look across the skies to you. Think of me in winter when you can no longer see me, but listen and hope, and wait, and we will meet again. We will not lose each other.”

Suddenly Karl was aware of Vega herself and saw the illusion. She was not gold as the rest of the constellation had at first appeared to be, but a lovely, definite, blue. He knew, too, he would never forget her, and would, no matter where he was, look for her always.