In a small village nestled between the hills, where the wind whispered ancient secrets to the ears of the wheat, lived a young boy named Éloi. His eyes, as bright as summer fireflies, were always turned toward the sky. Every evening, when the sun fell asleep behind the mountain and the first stars pierced the black canvas of the night, Éloi would lie down in the cool grass, his hands crossed behind his head, and dream.
 
He dreamed of distant travels, of unknown planets where trees spoke and rivers sang. He imagined cities of crystal floating in the clouds, forests where leaves were made of light, and oceans so deep they held entire worlds. To him, the stars were not just points of light, but open doors to infinity, promises whispered by the universe.
 
One evening, as the moon drew a silver streak across the sky, Éloi made a wish. He closed his eyes, clenched his fists tightly, and whispered: « One day, I will leave. I will touch the stars and ask them to tell me their stories. » The wind, his accomplice, carried his words to the heavens like an offering.
 
Years passed. Éloi grew, but his dream never faded. He studied star maps, learned the language of constellations, and built strange machines in his grandfather’s dusty workshop. The villagers thought him a little mad, but he only smiled. He knew that madness, sometimes, was just another name for magic.
 
And then, one morning, as dawn painted the world in pink and gold, Éloi left. He took with him a bag full of dreams, a compass pointing to the unknown, and one certainty: somewhere up there, the stars were waiting for him.