From Danika Starbourne
Danika Starbourne
High Ridge Observatory
Dad,
First off—thank you again for letting me use the cabin.
You know things have been tight for me financially (read: my bank account currently looks at me aghast, mouth wide open in horror because there’s literally nothing in it), and I really appreciate having a place to work without worrying about rent.
And more than that—thank you for always believing in me.
For never making me major in something soul-crushing like accounting or business management.
I mean, yes, maybe I should have (if only for the ability to buy groceries with less existential dread), but art is what I love, and I’m finally getting somewhere.
I know I say this every time, but this piece is going to be the one. The commission that changes everything. And I know you’ll say, “You always say that, Starshine,” but this time I really mean it.
I’m almost finished with the nature piece for the Solstice Gallery’s upcoming exhibit, and I really think it might be my best work yet.
It’s a large-scale mixed media installation—part sculpture, part painting, part light.
I used dried wildflowers from the ridge behind the observatory, layered them into resin panels, and backlit the whole thing so it glows like it’s breathing.
There are threads of copper running through it, like roots or constellations, depending on how you look at it.
It feels like something alive. I’ve never been so proud (or so nervous) to share something with the world.
I can’t wait for you to see it. Maybe then you’ll understand what this place has done for me. What you’ve done for me.
The stars are speaking to me up here. I forgot what it felt like to actually see them without all the city lights dulling them out.
You always told me I could hear them twinkle when I was little, and I swear, I hear them again now.
Like whispers, like music—like some secret they’ve been waiting for me to listen to.
They’re inspiring me to do my best work.
Which brings me to my next point—Old Man Morvain. How dangerous are we talking?
Because I think he put a letter in my mailbox. A letter claiming we’re soul mates. (And no, Dad, I don’t mean a “metaphorically connected by the vastness of the universe” kind of soul mates—I mean capital S, fated destiny, “you are mine, come be my queen” soul mates.)
I haven’t seen him, but I don’t love that he knows where I live.
So just in case I mysteriously disappear, I’d suggest telling the police to check out the weird guy up north first.
Love you to the sky and back,
~Dani