Before the first calendar was written, before kings counted years by the rise and fall of empires, there was a young flame named Aries.
Aries did not live in a house, a temple, or a village.
Aries lived at the edge of the world, where the dark sky met the sleeping earth.
Every morning, before the sun remembered to rise, Aries would wake first. He would stretch his golden horns toward the horizon and whisper,
"Again. Let us begin again."
And because Aries said it with such courage, the sun believed him.
Each day, Aries charged across the sky, breaking open the night with sparks beneath his hooves.
The flowers opened because they heard him coming.
Rivers shook off their winter silence.
Birds tested their voices.
Even the old mountains, who had seen everything and were impressed by almost nothing, felt a little younger whenever Aries passed by.
"There is no time to wait," Aries would say. "There is life to be lived."
But Aries had one problem.
He was always first.
First to leap.
First to speak.
First to fight.
First to forgive.
First to run toward danger.
And often, first to realize he had not made a plan.
The other signs loved him, but they also worried about him.
Taurus, who lived in a green valley of fruit trees and warm bread, once called out,
"Aries, slow down. The path is rocky."
But Aries only laughed.
"If I slow down, I will never know how fast I can go."
Gemini, sitting on a branch with two books open at once, shouted,
"At least ask where the road leads!"
"I will ask when I arrive," Aries replied.
Cancer, watching from the doorway of a moonlit cottage, spoke gently.
"Not every battle needs a warrior."
But Aries had already heard the word battle and was halfway over the hill.
One spring, a terrible stillness came to the land.
The wind stopped moving.
Seeds refused to split.
Rivers froze without ice.
People woke each morning with heavy hearts and forgot the names of their own dreams.
The world had not ended, exactly.
It had simply stopped beginning.