Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome back to Sleepy Stories. I'm your host, Lucy,
Speaker 1: and my friends and I will be reading you a
Speaker 1: sleepy bedtime story every week to relax you and to
Speaker 1: help you to drift off into a RESTful sleep. From
Speaker 1: time to time, we will also read you a relaxing,
Speaker 1: peaceful meditation that will take you somewhere beautiful and calming.
Speaker 1: Once we have read the stories, we will then read
Speaker 1: them a second time, but this time they will be
Speaker 1: read read even slower. This will help you to relax
Speaker 1: even more. Before we begin, I would like you to
Speaker 1: close your eyes and breathe in and out nice and deeply.
Speaker 1: Take a few seconds to inhale, and then hold your
Speaker 1: breath for a few seconds more, and then release and
Speaker 1: breathe out. Do this a few times if you need to.
Speaker 1: While you listen to the music and you listen to
Speaker 1: my voice, give yourself time to let your body relax
Speaker 1: and your mind settle. It's important that we allow time
Speaker 1: for us to feel safe, cozy, and completely at ease.
Speaker 1: And now it's time for this week's story. In a
Speaker 1: valley folded gently between two hills that looked like they
Speaker 1: were always whispering to each other, they lived a fox
Speaker 1: who asked too many questions. His fur was the color
Speaker 1: of toasted leaves, his tail brushed the ground like a
Speaker 1: slow moving paintbrush. And his name, at least the name
Speaker 1: he used for himself, was Lumin. The owls called him
Speaker 1: that one, the rabbits called him please don't, and the
Speaker 1: river stones had learned to stay very still when he
Speaker 1: walked past, just in case he decided to interview them.
Speaker 1: Lumin did not ask questions because he wanted answers exactly.
Speaker 1: He asked them because he liked how the world sounded
Speaker 1: when it tried to explain itself. Why does moss grow
Speaker 1: on the shady side of rocks? How do clouds know
Speaker 1: when to stop being clouds and start being rain? Where
Speaker 1: does the wind put things when it is done carrying them?
Speaker 1: One evening, when the valley was dimming like a candle
Speaker 1: being turned down carefully rather than blown out, Loomin noticed
Speaker 1: the moon climbing up from behind the far hill. It
Speaker 1: was round and pale, and glowing the way milk might
Speaker 1: glow if milk had ever been blessed by starlight. The
Speaker 1: crickets tuned their legs, the frogs cleared their throats, and
Speaker 1: the fireflies switched on one by one, like someone testing
Speaker 1: a string of tiny lanterns. Lumin sat on a warm
Speaker 1: stone and squinted. He tilted his head, he tilted it
Speaker 1: the other way. Then he lay down flat on his
Speaker 1: back and stared until the sky blurred gently at the edges.
Speaker 1: I wonder, he murmured, to nobody in particular, which which
Speaker 1: was his favorite audience, What it would be like to
Speaker 1: hold the moon for a little while. The stone beneath
Speaker 1: him made no comment. The grass pretended not to hear.
Speaker 1: A beetle paused, considered answering, and decided this was above
Speaker 1: its level of responsibility. But the idea stuck to loomin
Speaker 1: the way burrs stick to passing tails. He imagined how
Speaker 1: cool the moon might feel, or maybe warm, or maybe
Speaker 1: like something that couldn't quite decide. He imagined balancing it
Speaker 1: on his nose, the way seals in traveling circuses balanced
Speaker 1: shiny balls. He imagined using it to read at night
Speaker 1: without squinting. He imagined returned earning it later with a
Speaker 1: neat little bow tied around one of its craters. Just borrowing,
Speaker 1: he assured the darkness no one would mind. The darkness
Speaker 1: remained unconvinced, but polite Lumin padded down to the river
Speaker 1: because rivers were very old and usually knew how things worked.
Speaker 1: The water slid past him in silver ribbons, carrying moonlight
Speaker 1: in broken pieces that looked like they had been dropped
Speaker 1: and forgotten. Excuse me, Lumin said to the river. If
Speaker 1: someone wanted to temporarily hold the moon, how might they
Speaker 1: go about that? The river burbled thoughtfully, which was its
Speaker 1: way of laughing without being rude. It's swirled around a
Speaker 1: rock and sent a ripple tapping against the bank. Then
Speaker 1: it kept going because rivers are very good at continuing.
Speaker 1: That's not a no, Lumin decided. He wandered into the meadow,
Speaker 1: where the sheep slept in puffy clusters like misplaced clouds.
Speaker 1: An old you had one eye open and was counting
Speaker 1: stars instead of sheep for a change. Pardon me, Lumin whispered,
Speaker 1: Would you happen to know whether the moon can be borrowed? That?
Speaker 1: You blinked slowly. She blinked again. Then she sighed, the
Speaker 1: kind of sigh that comes from carrying wool and wisdom
Speaker 1: at the same time. Everything that shines belongs to the night,
Speaker 1: she said, And the night is not known for lending
Speaker 1: things out. Lumin nodded, politely, of course, just checking. Next,
Speaker 1: he visited the oak tree on the hill, whose roots
Speaker 1: gripped the ground as though the planet might try to
Speaker 1: wander off without warning. The oak creaked when the breeze
Speaker 1: touched it, which Lumin interpreted as a greeting, Oh, very
Speaker 1: tall one. He said, if I were to reach for
Speaker 1: the moon, do you think it would mind? The oak
Speaker 1: thought for a long time, which sounded like leaves rubbing
Speaker 1: together and branches stretching. Then an acorn dropped and bonked
Speaker 1: Lumin gently on the head. I will take that uncertain,
Speaker 1: Lumin said, rubbing his ears. He looked back up at
Speaker 1: the moon. It was drifting higher, now, serene and bright,
Speaker 1: and absolutely not behaving like something that expected to be
Speaker 1: picked up. Still, I could ask it directly, Lumin said.
Speaker 1: So he climbed the tallest rock he could find, which
Speaker 1: was not very tall but was doing its best. He
Speaker 1: stood on his hind legs, stretched his front paws into
Speaker 1: the air, and cleared his throat with great formality. Dear Moon,
Speaker 1: he called softly. I don't suppose you would mind terribly
Speaker 1: if I borrowed you for just a short while. The
Speaker 1: moon did not answer out loud, but a thin cloud
Speaker 1: drifted across its face, which Loomian took as a thoughtful expression. Encouraged,
Speaker 1: he climbed a little higher onto the rock, wobbled, regained
Speaker 1: his dignity, and stretched again. I promise I would put
Speaker 1: you back, he added, probably in exactly the same spot,
Speaker 1: or very close. The cloud slid away, the moon shone brighter.
Speaker 1: Loomin gasped. That feels like permission, he whispered. He leapt Now.
Speaker 1: Foxes are excellent jumpers. They can spring over logs, fences, puddles,
Speaker 1: and the occasional unfortunate bucket, but the distance between a
Speaker 1: fox and the moon is generally considered ambitious. Nevertheless, something
Speaker 1: peculiar happened. Instead of falling back down, Lumin floated, not fast,
Speaker 1: not slow, just up. The valley shrank beneath him. The
Speaker 1: oak became a broccoly shaped idea. The sheep turned into
Speaker 1: puffs of cream. The river became a silver thread, sowing
Speaker 1: the land together well, Lumin said, calmly, because panicking seemed
Speaker 1: impolite at this altitude. This is new Up. He drifted,
Speaker 1: paws tucked close, tail streaming behind him like a banner.
Speaker 1: The air grew cooler and quieter. The stars leaned away
Speaker 1: politely to let him pass, and then bump. He collided
Speaker 1: with the moon in the gentlest way possible, as though
Speaker 1: two thoughtful thoughts had run into each other. The moon
Speaker 1: was not hot, it was not cold. It felt like
Speaker 1: smooth stone that had been sitting in starlight for a
Speaker 1: very long time. Oh, Loomin, breathed, You're heavier than you look.
Speaker 1: He wrapped his paws around it. The glow dimmed just
Speaker 1: a little, the way lantern light dims when someone cups
Speaker 1: it in their hands. Below the valley side, owls blinked,
Speaker 1: crickets missed a note, Fireflies hovered in confusion. The night
Speaker 1: felt suddenly shorter. Lumin did not notice. He was busy
Speaker 1: admiring faint shadows inside the moon's glow, like secrets drawn
Speaker 1: in chalk. I'll just take you down for a moment,
Speaker 1: he said, show you around, stretch your horizons. The floating
Speaker 1: sensation reversed down. He drifted moon and fox together, glowing
Speaker 1: softly like a wandering bedtime thought. When he landed in
Speaker 1: the meadow, the sheep woke all at once. Is that
Speaker 1: one began there another tried moon finished the old yew Yes,
Speaker 1: Loomin said proudly, but only borrowed. The meadow was dim,
Speaker 1: now lit only by stars that suddenly felt underprepared for.
Speaker 1: The jobs grew longer. The hills shuffled closer together. The
Speaker 1: owls swooped low, put it back. One hissed gently. The
Speaker 1: frogs have lost their rhythm, croaked another. The river is
Speaker 1: bumping into things called a third. Lumin looked around. He
Speaker 1: noticed the softer darkness pooling at the edges of everything.
Speaker 1: He noticed the way the stars seemed nervous. Oh, he said.
Speaker 1: The moon pulsed faintly in his paws, as though clearing
Speaker 1: its throat. I didn't mean to inconvenience anyone, Lumin murmured.
Speaker 1: The old ewe stepped forward. Light is not just for
Speaker 1: looking at, she said, It tells the night how to behave.
Speaker 1: Loomin hugged the moon a little closer. I think I
Speaker 1: may have borrowed too much, he admitted. A hedgehog waddled
Speaker 1: up with a lantern that looked deeply inadequate. A bat
Speaker 1: flew in circles, trying to find a landmark that had
Speaker 1: gone missing. The fox swallowed. I'll put it back, he said. Immediately,
Speaker 1: He climbed the rock again, balancing the moon carefully like
Speaker 1: a glowing bowl of milk. He did not wish to spill. Sorry,
Speaker 1: he whispered to it. I just wanted to see what
Speaker 1: you were like. The moon shimmered up. He floated once more,
Speaker 1: slower this time, as though the sky itself was helping.
Speaker 1: Stars scooted aside, clouds bowed. When he reached the moon's
Speaker 1: old place, he nudged it gently. It slid into the
Speaker 1: darkness with a soft, invisible click, like a puzzle piece
Speaker 1: finding home. Light poured back into the valley. The river
Speaker 1: sighed in relief. The frogs found their beat. The fireflies
Speaker 1: flicked back on with theatrical flare. Loomin drifted down and
Speaker 1: landed in the grass, dizzy and glowing around the edges.
Speaker 1: The owls stared well. One said that was unnecessary, Yes,
Speaker 1: said another, but impressive. The sheep settled, the valley exhaled lumin,
Speaker 1: lay on his back again, looking up. The moon hung peacefully,
Speaker 1: pretending nothing unusual had happened. I won't do that again,
Speaker 1: he promised. Probably. The grass hummed, the river glittered, the
Speaker 1: hills leaned back into their whispers. Lumin curled his tail
Speaker 1: around his paws. His eyes grew heavy. Above him, the
Speaker 1: moon shone with quiet patience, and the night restored to
Speaker 1: its proper brightness. Tucked the valley in the moon stayed
Speaker 1: where it belonged, high and calm and glowing as though
Speaker 1: nothing in particular had happened at all, which Lumin suspected
Speaker 1: was exactly how the moon preferred things. He watched it
Speaker 1: blink slowly behind a passing veil of cloud, the sort
Speaker 1: of cloud that didn't hurry, the sort of cloud that
Speaker 1: had nowhere else scheduled to be looming. Yawned, not a
Speaker 1: polite yawn, a long, bending, tail curling, whisker tilting yawn
Speaker 1: that started in his toes and wandered all the way
Speaker 1: up to his ears. Well, he murmured to the grass.
Speaker 1: That was exciting enough for several lifetimes. The grass rustled approvingly.
Speaker 1: He rolled on to his side and listened to the
Speaker 1: night reorganize itself. That is what nights do. After some
Speaker 1: peculiar happens. They take a moment, smooth their edges, put
Speaker 1: stars back in neat places, Remind the insects what page
Speaker 1: they were on. The frogs restarted with cautious enthusiasm one, two, three,
Speaker 1: then altogether, like a choir that had briefly lost its
Speaker 1: conductor and found him again Hiding behind a reed. The
Speaker 1: river tried a new sparkle pattern, just to be sure. Satisfied,
Speaker 1: it went back to its usual work of carrying reflections
Speaker 1: downstream when no one could keep them for very long.
Speaker 1: Lumin watched until his eyelids drooped, then forced them open again,
Speaker 1: because he not quite ready to stop existing for the evening.
Speaker 1: He noticed something odd. The moonlight around him seemed thicker
Speaker 1: than usual, like warm honey instead of plain brightness. It
Speaker 1: pooled around his paws, gathered in his tail, left faint
Speaker 1: silver freckles on the tips of his ears. He lifted
Speaker 1: one paw and turned it slowly. I appear to be glimmering,
Speaker 1: the poor, agreed, Oh dear. He shook himself, light shook,
Speaker 1: two sparkles, scattered into the grass, and faded politely. Looming
Speaker 1: squinted at the moon. You wouldn't happen to have left
Speaker 1: any of yourself behind. The Moon did not respond. It
Speaker 1: continued being extremely moonlike a snail in a shiny shell,
Speaker 1: slid past you're glowing, the snail said, because snails are
Speaker 1: very direct. Yes, Lumen admitted, I noticed, nicely added the snail,
Speaker 1: thank you. The snail slid away, satisfied Lumin's side, carefully
Speaker 1: so as not to spill any more starlight. I suppose
Speaker 1: I should sleep this off, He padded toward his den,
Speaker 1: which was tucked beneath a tangle of roots where the
Speaker 1: oak tree kept its underground thoughts. Step made soft silver
Speaker 1: footprints that faded after a moment, like the night, politely
Speaker 1: erasing his tracks so he wouldn't feel embarrassed about them. Later.
Speaker 1: Inside the den, the air was cool and smelled faintly
Speaker 1: of earth and old leaves and forgotten adventures. Comfort smells
Speaker 1: the best kind. Loomin curled into a crescent shape, which
Speaker 1: felt appropriate all things considered, But sleep did not arrive
Speaker 1: at once. Instead, his thoughts wandered. He thought about the moon,
Speaker 1: how quiet it had been, how patient, how heavy with
Speaker 1: age and light. He thought about the valley, how everything
Speaker 1: depended on everything else in ways that were easy to
Speaker 1: forget until someone picked up the sky. He thought about
Speaker 1: how borrowing was different from owning, and how returning something
Speaker 1: was sometimes the most important part These were large thoughts,
Speaker 1: too large to hold for very long. They slowly shrank
Speaker 1: into softer ones, like how warm the dirt was, and
Speaker 1: how steady the oak's roots must feel, and how nice
Speaker 1: it was that frogs existed at all outside. The wind
Speaker 1: wandered by and peaked into the den. Are you finished
Speaker 1: rearranging the universe? It whispered yes. Lumin whispered back, good,
Speaker 1: said the wind, and wandered off to bother reeds instead.
Speaker 1: Sleep crept closer, dragging a blanket made of shadows and slow,
Speaker 1: blinking and comfortable nothing. But just before Lumin drifted away,
Speaker 1: he heard a tiny cough. It came from the entrance
Speaker 1: of the den. Lumin opened one eye. A moth hovered there,
Speaker 1: glowing faintly with leftover moon enthusiasm. I'm sorry, said the moth,
Speaker 1: but since you were recently handling the moon, yes, could
Speaker 1: you tell it? Yes, that it dropped a reflection in
Speaker 1: the pond. Lumin blinked, I believe it does that every night. Oh.
Speaker 1: The moth paused, Well, never mind, then it fluttered off. Relieved,
Speaker 1: Lumin smiled, which is difficult for foxes, but not impossible
Speaker 1: if they try. He closed both eyes. The moonlight filtered
Speaker 1: through leaves and roots and thin places in the world.
Speaker 1: It painted slow moving patterns on the walls of the den.
Speaker 1: Lumin followed one with his gaze until it blurred into nothing.
Speaker 1: The valley settled deeper. The hills stopped whispering and started
Speaker 1: humming instead. Far away, somewhere between stars, the moon adjusted
Speaker 1: itself a millimeter just for comfort. Looming dreamed. He dreamed
Speaker 1: of carrying a teacup full of constellations. He dreamed of
Speaker 1: clouds that needed folding. He dreamed of sheep jumping over themselves.
Speaker 1: He dreamed of rivers that forgot where they were going
Speaker 1: and decided to nap all very sensible things. The night
Speaker 1: went on being enormous and gentle. Owls glided, beetles polished
Speaker 1: their wings. Trees leaned into breezes like dancers who had
Speaker 1: done this for centuries. Nothing else tried to borrow the moon,
Speaker 1: which pleased everyone, especial the moon and the fox, who
Speaker 1: slept and slept and slept while above him light kept
Speaker 1: shining exactly where it belonged, slow, soft, steady, in a
Speaker 1: valley folded gently between two hills that looked like they
Speaker 1: were always whispering. To each other. There lived a fox
Speaker 1: who asked too many questions. His fur was the color
Speaker 1: of toasted leaves, his tail brushed the ground like a
Speaker 1: slow moving paint brush, and his name, at least the
Speaker 1: name he used for himself, was Loomin. The owls called
Speaker 1: him that one, the rabbits called him please don't, and
Speaker 1: the river stones had learned to stay very still when
Speaker 1: he walked past, just in case he decided to interview them.
Speaker 1: Lumin did not ask questions because he wanted answers exactly.
Speaker 1: He asked them because he liked how the world sounded
Speaker 1: when it tried to explain itself. Why does moss grow
Speaker 1: on the shady side of rocks? How do clouds know
Speaker 1: when to stop being clouds and start being rain? Where
Speaker 1: does the wind put things when it is done carrying them?
Speaker 1: One evening, when the valley was dimming, like a candle
Speaker 1: being turned down carefully rather than blown out, Lumin noticed
Speaker 1: the moon climbing up from behind the far hill. It
Speaker 1: was round and pale, and glowing the way milk might
Speaker 1: glow if milk had ever been blessed by starlight. The
Speaker 1: crickets tuned their legs, the frogs cleared their throats, and
Speaker 1: the fireflies switched on one by one, like someone testing
Speaker 1: a string of tiny lanterns. Lumin sat on a warm
Speaker 1: stone and squinted. He tilted his head, he tilted it
Speaker 1: the other way. Then he lay down flat on his
Speaker 1: back and stared until the sky blurred gently at the edges.
Speaker 1: I wonder, he murmured, to nobody in particular, which was
Speaker 1: his favorite audience, what it would be like to hold
Speaker 1: the moon for a little while. The stone beneath him
Speaker 1: made no comment. The grass pretended not to hear. A
Speaker 1: beetle paused, considered answering, and decided this was above its
Speaker 1: leg of responsibility. But the idea stuck to Lumin the
Speaker 1: way burrs stick to passing tails. He imagined how cool
Speaker 1: the moon might feel, or maybe warm, or maybe like
Speaker 1: something that couldn't quite decide. He imagined balancing it on
Speaker 1: his nose, the way seals in traveling circuses balanced shiny balls.
Speaker 1: He imagined using it to read at night without squinting.
Speaker 1: He imagined returning it later with a neat little bough
Speaker 1: tied around one of its craters, Just borrowing. He assured
Speaker 1: the darkness. No one would mind the darkness remained unconvinced,
Speaker 1: but polite Lumin padded down to the river because rivers
Speaker 1: were very old and usually knew how things worked. The
Speaker 1: water slid past him in silver ribbons, carrying moonlight in
Speaker 1: broken pieces that looked like they had been dropped and forgotten.
Speaker 1: Excuse me, Lumin said to the river. If someone wanted
Speaker 1: to temporarily hold the moon, how might they go about that?
Speaker 1: The river burbled thoughtfully, which was its way of laughing
Speaker 1: without being rude. It swirled around a rock and sent
Speaker 1: a ripple tapping against the bank. Then it kept going
Speaker 1: because rivers are very good at continuing. That's not a no,
Speaker 1: Lumin decided. He wandered into the meadow, where the sheep
Speaker 1: slept in puffy clusters like misplaced clouds. An old you
Speaker 1: had one eye open and was counting stars instead of
Speaker 1: sheep for a change. Pardon me, Lumin whispered, Would you
Speaker 1: happen to know whether the moon can be borrowed? The
Speaker 1: You blinked slowly. She blinked again. Then she sighed the
Speaker 1: kind of sigh that comes from carrying wool and wisdom
Speaker 1: at the same time. Everything that shines belongs to the night,
Speaker 1: she said, and the night is not known for lending
Speaker 1: things out. Lumin nodded, politely, of course, just checking. Next,
Speaker 1: he visited the oak tree on the hill, whose roots
Speaker 1: gripped the ground as though the planet might try to
Speaker 1: wander off without warning. The oak creaked when the breeze
Speaker 1: touched it, which Lumin interpreted as a greeting, Oh, very
Speaker 1: tall one. He said, if I were to reach for
Speaker 1: the moon, do you think it would mind? The oak
Speaker 1: thought for a long time, which sounded like leaves rubbing
Speaker 1: together and branches stretching. Then an acorn dropped and bonked
Speaker 1: Lumin gently on the head. I will take that as uncertain,
Speaker 1: Lumin said, rubbing his ears. He looked back up at
Speaker 1: the moon. It was drifting higher, now, serene and bright,
Speaker 1: and absolutely not behaving like something that expected to be
Speaker 1: picked up. Still, I could ask it dive directly, Lumin said.
Speaker 1: So he climbed the tallest rock he could find, which
Speaker 1: was not very tall but was doing its best. He
Speaker 1: stood on his hind legs, stretched his front paws into
Speaker 1: the air, and cleared his throat with great formality. Dear Moon,
Speaker 1: he called softly. I don't suppose you would mind terribly
Speaker 1: if I borrowed you for just a short while. The
Speaker 1: moon did not answer out loud, but a thin cloud
Speaker 1: drifted across its face, which Lumian took as a thoughtful expression. Encouraged,
Speaker 1: he climbed a little higher onto the rock, wobbled, regained
Speaker 1: his dignity, and stretched again. I promise I would put
Speaker 1: you back, he added, probably in exactly the same spot,
Speaker 1: or very close. The cloud slid away, the moon shone brighter.
Speaker 1: Lumin gasped. That feels like permission, he whispered. He leapt. Now.
Speaker 1: Foxes are excellent jumpers. They can spring over logs, fences, puddles,
Speaker 1: and the occasional unfortunate bucket, but the distance between a
Speaker 1: fox and the moon is generally considered ambitious. Nevertheless, something
Speaker 1: peculiar happened. Instead of falling back down, Lumin floated, not fast,
Speaker 1: not slow, just up. The valley shrank beneath him. The
Speaker 1: oak became a broccoly shaped idea, the sheep into puffs
Speaker 1: of cream. The river became a silver thread, sowing the
Speaker 1: land together well, Lumin said, calmly, because panicking seemed impolite
Speaker 1: at this altitude. This is new up. He drifted, paws
Speaker 1: tucked close, tail streaming behind him like a banner. The
Speaker 1: air grew cooler and quieter. The stars leaned away politely
Speaker 1: to let him pass, and then bump. He collided with
Speaker 1: the moon in the gentlest way possible, as though two
Speaker 1: thoughtful thoughts had run into each other. The moon was
Speaker 1: not hot, it was not cold. It felt like smooth
Speaker 1: stone that had been sitting in starlight for a very
Speaker 1: long time. Oh, Loomin breathed, You're heavier than you look.
Speaker 1: He wrapped his paws around it. The glow dimmed just
Speaker 1: a little, the way lantern light dims when someone cups
Speaker 1: it in their hands. Below the valley side, owls blinked,
Speaker 1: crickets missed a note, Fireflies hovered in confusion. The night
Speaker 1: felt suddenly shorter. Lumin did not notice. He was busy
Speaker 1: admiring faint shadows inside the moon's glow, like secrets drawn
Speaker 1: in chalk. I'll just take you down for a moment,
Speaker 1: he said, show you around, stretch your horizons. The floating
Speaker 1: sensation reversed down. He drifted moon and fox together, glowing
Speaker 1: softly like a wandering bedtime thought. When he landed in
Speaker 1: the meadow, the sheep woke all at once. Is that
Speaker 1: one began there another tried. Moon finished the old yew yes,
Speaker 1: Loomin said proudly, but only borrowed. The meadow was dim,
Speaker 1: now lit only by stars that suddenly felt underprepared for
Speaker 1: the job. Shadows grew longer, the hills shuffled closer together.
Speaker 1: The owls swooped low, put it back. One hissed gently,
Speaker 1: The frogs have lost their rhythm, croaked another. The river
Speaker 1: is bumping into things. Third, Lumin looked around. He noticed
Speaker 1: the softer darkness pooling at the edges of everything. He
Speaker 1: noticed the way the stars seemed nervous. Oh, he said.
Speaker 1: The moon pulsed faintly in his paws, as though clearing
Speaker 1: its throat. I didn't mean to inconvenience anyone, Lumin murmured.
Speaker 1: The old you stepped forward. Light is not just for
Speaker 1: looking at, she said, It tells the night how to behave.
Speaker 1: Lumin hugged the moon a little closer. I think I
Speaker 1: may have borrowed too much, he admitted. A hedgehog waddled
Speaker 1: up with a lantern that looked deeply inadequate. A bat
Speaker 1: flew in circles, trying to find a landmark that had
Speaker 1: gone missing. The fox swallowed. I'll put it back, he said. Immediately,
Speaker 1: He climbed the rock again, balancing the moon carefully like
Speaker 1: a glowing bowl of milk. He did not wish to spill. Sorry,
Speaker 1: he whispered to it. I just wanted to see what
Speaker 1: you were like. The moon shimmered up. He floated once more,
Speaker 1: slower this time, as though the sky itself was helping.
Speaker 1: Stars scooted aside, clouds bowed. When he reached the moon's
Speaker 1: old place, he nudged it gently. It slid into the
Speaker 1: darkness with a soft, invisible click, like a puzzle piece
Speaker 1: finding home. Lie poured back into the valley. The river
Speaker 1: sighed in relief. The frogs found their beat. The fireflies
Speaker 1: flicked back on with theatrical flare. Lumin drifted down and
Speaker 1: landed in the grass, dizzy and glowing around the edges.
Speaker 1: The owls stared. Well. One said that was unnecessary, Yes,
Speaker 1: said another, but impressive. The sheep settled, the valley exhaled.
Speaker 1: Lumin lay on his back again, looking up. The moon
Speaker 1: hung peacefully, pretending nothing unusual had happened. I won't do
Speaker 1: that again, he promised. Probably. The grass hummed, the river glittered,
Speaker 1: the hills leaned back into their whispers. Loomin curled his
Speaker 1: tail around his paws. His eyes grew heavy. Above him,
Speaker 1: the moon shone with quiet patience, and the night restored
Speaker 1: to its proper brightness. Tucked the valley in the moon
Speaker 1: stayed where it belonged, high and calm and glowing as
Speaker 1: though nothing in particular had happened at all, which Lumin
Speaker 1: suspected was exactly how the moon preferred things. He watched
Speaker 1: it blink slowly behind a passing veil of cloud, the
Speaker 1: sort of cloud that didn't hurry, the sort of cloud
Speaker 1: that had nowhere else scheduled to be. Lumin yawned, not
Speaker 1: a polite yawn, a long, bending tail, curling, whisker tilting
Speaker 1: yawn that started in his toes and wandered all the
Speaker 1: way up to his ears. Well, he murmured to the grass.
Speaker 1: That was exciting enough for several lifetimes. The grass rustled approvingly.
Speaker 1: He rolled onto his side and listened to the night
Speaker 1: reorganize itself. That is what nights do after something peculiar happens.
Speaker 1: They take a moment, smooth their edges, put stars back
Speaker 1: in neat places, Remind the insects what page they were on.
Speaker 1: The frogs restarted with cautious enthusiasm one, two, three, then altogether,
Speaker 1: like a choir that had briefly lost its conductor and
Speaker 1: found him again Hiding behind a reed. The river tried
Speaker 1: a new sparkle pattern, just to be sure. Satisfied, it
Speaker 1: went back to its usual work of carrying reflections downstream
Speaker 1: when no one could keep them for very long. Lumin
Speaker 1: watched until his eyelids drooped, then forced them open again,
Speaker 1: because he was not quite ready to stop existing for
Speaker 1: the evening. He noticed something odd. The moonlight around him
Speaker 1: seemed thicker than usual, like warm honey instead of plain brightness.
Speaker 1: It pooled around his paws, gathered in his tail, left
Speaker 1: faint silver freckles on the tips of his ears. He
Speaker 1: lifted one pow and turned it slowly. I appear to
Speaker 1: be glimmering, the poor, agreed, Oh dear. He shook himself,
Speaker 1: light shook, two sparkles, scattered into the grass, and faded politely.
Speaker 1: Loomin squinted at the moon. You wouldn't happen to have
Speaker 1: left any of yourself behind. The Moon did not respond.
Speaker 1: It continued being extremely moonlike a snail in a shiny shell.
Speaker 1: Slid past. You're glowing, the snail said, because snails are
Speaker 1: very direct. Yes, lumin admitted, I noticed, nicely, added the snail,
Speaker 1: thank you. The snail slid away, satisfied. Loomin side carefully
Speaker 1: so as not to spill any more starlight. I suppose
Speaker 1: I should sleep this off, he padded, toward his den,
Speaker 1: which was tucked beneath a tangle of roots where the
Speaker 1: oak tree kept its underground thoughts. Every step made soft
Speaker 1: silver footprints that faded after a moment, like the night,
Speaker 1: politely erasing his tracks so he wouldn't feel embarrassed about them. Later.
Speaker 1: Inside the den, the air was cool and smelled faintly
Speaker 1: of earth and old leaves and forgotten adventures. Comfort smells
Speaker 1: the best kind. Loomin curled into a crescent shape, which
Speaker 1: felt appropriate all things considered, But sleep did not arrive
Speaker 1: at once. Instead, his thoughts wandered. He thought about the moon,
Speaker 1: how quiet it had been, how patient, how heavy with
Speaker 1: age and light. He thought about the valley, how everything
Speaker 1: depended on everything else in ways that were easy to
Speaker 1: forget until someone picked up the sky. He thought about
Speaker 1: how borrowing was different from owning, and how returning something
Speaker 1: was sometimes the most important part. These were large thoughts,
Speaker 1: too large to hold for very long. They slowly shrank
Speaker 1: into softer ones, like how warm the dirt was, and
Speaker 1: how steady the oak's roots must feel, and how nice
Speaker 1: it was that frogs existed at all. Outside. The wind
Speaker 1: wandered by and peeked into the den. Are you finished
Speaker 1: rearranging the universe? It whispered yes. Loomin whispered back, good,
Speaker 1: said the wind, and wandered off to bother reeds instead.
Speaker 1: Sleep crept closer, dragging a blanket made of shadows and slow,
Speaker 1: blinking and comfortable nothing. But just before Lumin drifted away,
Speaker 1: he heard a tiny cough. It came from the entrance
Speaker 1: of the den. Lumin opened one eye. A moth hovered there,
Speaker 1: glowing faintly with leftover moon enthusiasm. I'm sorry, said the moth,
Speaker 1: but since you were recently handling the moon, yes, could
Speaker 1: you tell it? Yes, that it dropped a reflection in
Speaker 1: the pond. Lumin blinked, I believe it does that every night. Oh.
Speaker 1: The moth paused, Well, never mind, then it fluttered off. Relieved.
Speaker 1: Lumin smiled. Which is difficult for foxes, but not impossible
Speaker 1: if they try he closed both eyes. The moonlight filtered
Speaker 1: through leaves and roots and thin places in the world.
Speaker 1: It painted slow moving patterns on the walls of the den.
Speaker 1: Lumin followed one with his gaze until it blurred into nothing.
Speaker 1: The valley settled deeper, The hills stopped whispering and started
Speaker 1: humming instead. Far away, somewhere between stars, the moon adjusted
Speaker 1: itself a millimeter just for comfort. Lumin dreamed. He dreamed
Speaker 1: of carrying a teacup full of constellations. He dreamed of
Speaker 1: clouds that needed folding. He dreamed of sheep jumping over themselves.
Speaker 1: He dreamed of rivers that forgot where they were going
Speaker 1: and decided to nap all very sensible things. The night
Speaker 1: went on being enormous and gentle. Owls glided, beetles polished
Speaker 1: their wings. Trees leaned into breezes like dancers who had
Speaker 1: done this for centuries. Nothing else tried to borrow the moon,
Speaker 1: which pleased everyone, especially the moon and the fox, who
Speaker 1: slept and slept and slept while above him light kept
Speaker 1: shining exactly where it belonged, slow, soft, steady boi news
Speaker 1: and s