That was the way of stars. They formed from dust and they burned. If a miracle happened they became alive. Then they enjoyed a glorious period of flourishing. Then they were seen, they were loved. And slowly their fire died down, and they fell to dust once more. From that dust new stars could form, and perhaps new life.
When the story was over, they looked at the ball with new eyes. Bleached and weathered, a remnant of what was once alive. A disintegrating shell, slowly to disperse, and to start a new cycle.
An image of their own future.