The lights hang dark and still. Move your hand across the sky and they answer — bending, brightening, draping toward the pull of your cursor.
Sweep fast and the curtain flares.
Every aurora is charged particles falling into the field lines above the pole. Here you are the charge. Drag quickly and the sheet ignites where you pass — a bright spill of green that fades a heartbeat behind your hand.
Slow down and it dims. The sky spends exactly the energy you feed it, and no more.
Comb it left and the rays lean.
The curtain is not painted — it is a field of vertical filaments, each free to bend. Comb across them and they drape in the direction you swept, trailing a little behind like grass in a current, then righting themselves when you lift away.
A faint magenta skirt hangs at the lower fringe — nitrogen, glowing where the curtain meets the dark.
Hold still. The sky forgets.
Take your hand away and the flare relaxes. The braids unwind, the colour cools, and the whole display settles back to a single quiet band low on the horizon — the faint arc that was always there, waiting for the next hand.
The dial in the corner reads it all: how hard you sweep, how much charge you hold, how far the rays have draped.