Once, the moon tried to sneak a closer look at the sleeping world. She leaned in too far and her silver edge caught on the tallest pine. The stars panicked—no moon meant no rhythm for the tides, no lullabies for the owls.
So, they called down the night’s resident “fix‑it” spirit—half chaos, half charm—who grumbled, “You’d think a celestial body could mind her own balance.”
With one hand he steadied the tree, with the other he teased the moon loose. She tumbled free, splashing silver light everywhere and laughing like rain on metal.
When it was done, he brushed off his hands and muttered, “Next time, maybe just send an invitation instead of crashing the scenery.”
The stars still sparkle extra bright on nights when she remembers to say thank you.
Jessica Carey
