Luna climbed the old oak tree and peeked into a hollow trunk. A tiny star, no bigger than a button, glowed faintly inside.
She lifted the star — it was warm, like a darning needle held to a flame. It wouldn't climb back up, so she tucked it into her pocket and decided to help.
Her grandmother wrapped a patchwork quilt around her shoulders and pointed up at the endless silver sky. They set out together through the sleeping village.
She carried the star across the stone bridge and hurled it toward the heavens. It spiraled down — plop — straight into the village well.
Luna fished the star out with a twig. It was wet and still dim, so she kept climbing.
They reached the highest hill where the grass hummed in the wind. Luna placed the star in her grandmother's cupped palms.
Her grandmother began to hum a low, slow song. The star shivered — then glowed — then blazed gold.
The star lifted upward on a trail of shimmering dust, ringing like tiny silver bells. It settled beside its sisters in the sky.
Luna waved from the hilltop, grinning. Her grandmother squeezed her hand.
That night, Luna pressed her nose to her bedroom window and watched the bright star twinkling bravely. She slept with a wide smile on her face.
