Far beyond the usual sky,
in a quiet corner of the universe where even comets slow down to stretch,
there was a tiny floating library made entirely of starlight.
Not bright starlight —
sleepy starlight.
The kind that glows like warm candles and never hurts your eyes.
The library had one librarian:
an old celestial fox with silver fur
and ears that drooped whenever he thought
too hard.
His name was Sorrel,
and he was ancient in the way old blankets are ancient —
soft, comforting, and frayed in all the best places.
Every night, the sleepy stars drifted in like dandelion seeds.
They’d tuck themselves onto shelves,
nestle between books,
and murmur little stories about what they saw in the universe that day.
Some talked about nebula storms.
Some whispered about new planets being born.
Some complained that meteors were too loud.
But one night,
a very tiny star floated in —
so small it barely glowed at all.
It wobbled as it landed on the front desk.
Sorrel looked down at it and said,
“Oh, little one.
What’s your story today?”
The star dimmed.
“I… I didn’t see anything important,”
it said, voice as small as a feather.
“I didn’t do anything special.
I don’t have a good story to tell.”
Sorrel blinked slowly,
his old fox tail curling around the star like a blanket.
Then he whispered:
“Sometimes the best story is simply,
‘I made it through today.’”
The little star flickered.
Then flickered again.
Then began to glow —
not bright,
but warm.
Just warm.
Enough.
It nestled into a shelf labeled Ordinary Miracles,
and for the first time,
it felt like it belonged.
Jessica Carey
