Ayana.

In her story, one night she set up the telescope in front of the building and let the neighborhood kids take turns looking through it: first the craters of the Moon, then the rings. One boy, eye pressed to the eyepiece, asked: so who put that there? Ayana laughed with her whole face, the first time in weeks she'd laughed like that. No one, sweetheart. It's been there since long before you and me. She does it every month she can manage; they're her best nights.

She herself first saw Saturn at sixteen, through a borrowed telescope at a village fair near Kouré: she put her eye to it, saw the rings, and only asked to look again. That wonder went back further still, to a grandmother who named the stars for her on a rooftop when she was a child. Now she passes it on, on the sidewalk, to kids who won't forget it. It's an everyday t-shirt, made to wear without thinking; the rest is in her biography.