Mira's Bedtime Story

The attic window had always held the same seven stars — Mira knew them each by name, the way she knew the creak of the third stair. But tonight, counting them before bed the way she always did, she found only six.

Mira

Grandma Nell — come quick! One of my stars is gone. I counted them twice.

Grandma Nell set down her knitting and shuffled to the window in her slippers, the lamp light catching the silver in her hair. She peered up at the sky with Mira, humming the way she always did when something needed thinking over.

Grandma Nell

Six, you say? Well now. Stars don't usually wander off without a reason, dear one. Shall we ask someone who might know?

Mira

Who would know a thing like that? Stars are so far away.

Grandma Nell

Pip would know. Owls see everything that happens after dark — that's half of why they stay awake for it.

So they cracked the attic window, letting in a breath of cool night air that smelled like pine and rain to come. Grandma Nell gave three soft whistles, low and round, and before long a pair of amber eyes blinked open on the oak branch outside.

Pip

Hoo bothers an owl at the good part of the evening? Oh — it's you two. Let me guess. Something's missing.

Mira

One of my stars, Pip! The one at the very corner, by the chimney. Did you see where it went?

Pip ruffled his feathers thoughtfully, tilting his round head the way owls do when they are pretending to think harder than they need to.

Pip

I did see something, as it happens. A little cloud came creeping in from the west, slow as spilled milk, and tucked itself right over that corner of sky. Your star didn't go anywhere. It's only hiding.

Mira

Hiding? Stars can do that?

Grandma Nell

Everything hides sometimes, dear one. Clouds hide stars, shadows hide corners of the garden, and sleep hides tomorrow until we've rested enough to meet it. Nothing truly disappears. It only waits its turn to be seen again.

Mira leaned her chin on the windowsill and watched the thin gray cloud drift, unhurried, like a sleepy cat stretching across a windowsill of its own. Sure enough, at its edge a small white point of light trembled, patient, waiting.

Mira

There! I can almost see it. Will it come back before I fall asleep?

Pip

That, little one, is a mystery even I can't solve. Clouds keep their own schedule. But I'll keep watch, as owls do, and in the morning you may ask me whether your star came home.

Satisfied, Mira let Grandma Nell tuck the quilt beneath her chin, the stitched stars on its hem glowing faintly where the lamplight touched them. Outside, Pip settled deeper into his feathers, one amber eye still fixed loyally on the drifting cloud.

Grandma Nell

Sleep now, little detective. The best mysteries are the ones that are still there to solve when you wake.

And so Mira closed her eyes, counting backward instead of forward — seven stars, six stars, one small cloud keeping a secret just for the night — until the counting softened into dreaming, and the attic window stood quiet, holding its sky like a held breath, waiting for morning to let it go.