Moonlight pooled across the garden like spilled milk. Flick froze. Pulsing yellow-green orbs drifted past his leaf. He pressed flat against the stem, knees trembling. The crickets' hum thumped against his eardrums. Hide. Wait for dawn.
He leaped onto a broad hosta leaf and pulled it up like a canopy. His shadow pooled beneath him. The glowing dots drifted closer, warming the soil. The waxy leaf squeaked under his grip. Somewhere nearby, a crack between rocks looked like salvation.
Flick hopped down, zigzagging between lavender stalks. A low dandelion puff blocked the path. He sidestepped — seeds burst upward, tangling his antennae. One tickled his nose. Ah-CHOO! He stumbled backward into a smooth stone. The crack was right there.
He squeezed into the crack, pulling his legs tight. A soft glow filtered in beside him. Flick flinched, eyes shut — waited for a sting. None came. Instead, a tiny hum vibrated against his side. The light pulsed gently, steady as a nightlight. Curiosity crept in. He peeked one eye open.
The firefly zipped in a lazy circle, then landed on a blade of fescue. It gave a little bow. Flick's jaw unclenched. He waved a foreleg back. The firefly's glow warmed the cool air, smelling faintly of dust. Together, they hopped toward the center of the garden.
They moved as one through the sleeping garden. Firefly light painted gold paths between mushrooms and moss. Flick no longer pressed flat. He hopped — bold, free — shoulders squared. The crickets still sang, but now the song sounded like welcome.
A breeze shuffled the lavender. Flick paused, listening. The firefly circled once, twice, then dipped low — pointing the way. He followed, legs springing light and sure. Each jump carried him further from the stem where he'd hidden.
They reached a clearing where three old roses arched over a patch of clover. The firefly rose higher, spinning slow rings of light. Flick watched, mesmerized. Each ring pulsed softer, then brighter, then softer again — like breathing.
The firefly settled on a clover blossom and rested. Flick sat beside it, folding his legs. The garden hummed around them — beesong fading, Nightjar calling once, far away. He didn't feel the need to hide anymore. Dawn would come. And it wouldn't scare him.
The first hint of pink touched the eastern sky. Flick stood, stretching his legs long and strong. The firefly lifted off, circling his head once — a goodbye or a promise — then shot upward into the brightening blue. Flick watched it go. Then he hopped into the new day.
Sunlight warmed the hosta leaves. Flick sat on his favorite stem, chin propped on his forelegs, watching the garden wake. A bee bumped into a lavender flower. A spider repaired her web. Everything moved. Everything belonged. He tucked one leg, then the other, and settled in.
Far above, a faint green sparkle vanished into the blue. Flick didn't need to hide anymore. The garden was his. The sun was his. He opened his mouth and let out the first jump-song of the day — loud, clear, and entirely his own.