Each star falls only once.
Any apparent second flight is the result of heat and light thrown off by the initial fall.
Let me explain:

Ingrid and Rauel
recline before a grate.
Parboiling spuds, pork and chopped onion in a pan on the coals.
Ingrid is without child.
Despite her sister's luck. Her blackguard husband
scouring others' traps
reselling salt used to grit the hospital path; he is
rewarded with a son
Alfonz.
Rauel spears a spud with a pocket knife
and looks up.

Ingrid's mittens have the fingers snipped off.
She can practise batiq, sew, thread candles.
Her fingers red and plump sausages.
She takes the potato from her husband,
cubes it and adds it to the pan.
No seasoning.

She pulls her ratatouille, frozen beneath a cavity in the floor,
out, like a blood bag, and using the heel of her hand, snaps it in two.
She drops the smaller section into the pan.
It liquifies.

No envoy down the chimney: not owl, nor meteor,
nor angel. The cold air of the cabin drifts over the flame
and up. There is no heat between her womb
and the nearest star.