The Fifth Point was changing. The tarnished signs had been polished, their words now gleaming gold and splendid. The ladders had been wiped clean, rung by rung, their messages now shining bright. For the first time in a long, long time, passersby could see inside the Fifth Point. The four display windows of the square shop shone, clear and clean, inside and outside.
And what would a curious Four Pointer see if they looked through?
Not dust, not dirt, not rubbish, not trash.
No, no. They would see wooden floors that reflected back the sunlight and the barely there blue light. They would see shelves lined with once-thrown-away nothings that had been lovingly mended into somethings.
Re-covered books. Kites with new tails. Tea sets a queen would be proud of.
They would see a home, a home for the lost and homeless made by one who was once lost and homeless, a home that a Star had made for himself after the Universe had taken his away.
They might even spot the ShopKeeper himself. He was there now, at his workbench.
Tick tock tickity tock, went the many now-functioning clocks. Scritch scratch scritchity scratch, went the ShopKeeper’s quill pen.
The ShopKeeper had spent the day writing letters to his Keeper friends. They were fallen Stars like him—Stars that had chosen to remain here on Earth instead of returning home. They, like the ShopKeeper, had created new homes for themselves and a new purpose: to save the fallen. He had visited each one before this quest began, but he wanted to tell them what they had meant to him one last time.
Then the clocks began to chime and ring and cuckoo. The ShopKeeper set down his quill. He donned his much-patched top hat and pulled on a pair of gloves.
It was time for his meeting.