The clock ticked past midnight. Max pulled the quilt up to his chin. The room stayed stubbornly dark. He pressed his face into the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut until stars burst behind his lids. The silence felt too heavy to sleep through.
A tiny green light drifted past the curtains. It landed on the nightstand — a firefly blinking once, twice — then zipped toward the bedroom door. Max sat up so fast the quilt slipped to the floor. His fingers found the hem of his pajama top, knotted tight, before his feet touched the cool wood and followed the glow.
The firefly pulsed toward the living room, dipped behind the sofa, and dropped something small and silver into the boy's open palm. A lost button caught the moonlight and winked back at him. His mouth opened in a silent oh. He looked from the button to the dark hallway, where the firefly waited just beyond the doorway.
Max crept into the hall. The firefly weaved between the legs of the dining chair and darted upward toward a cluster of tiny moths gathered on the ceiling like a floating constellation. Max reached up. His fingertips brushed one dusty wing. The firefly settled on his shoulder, steady and warm, as the house breathed around them.
At the top of the stairs, the firefly spiraled upward. Past the landing window, where the moon painted a silver rectangle on the carpet, Max stood on tiptoe with his arms wide — holding the whole dark sky.
The firefly tapped his nose once. Then it fluttered back toward the bedroom, and Max followed without pulling the quilt over his head. He watched the dark ceiling bloom with possibilities.
The firefly zipped through the bedroom doorway and landed on the nightstand. Max padded in barefoot, stopped at the foot of his bed, and looked up at the ceiling.
Max sank into the quilt — not under it, just beside it. He lay on his back and let the dark ceiling become a sky again. Everything he had seen — the button, the moths, the silver light — hummed behind his eyes like the first verse of a lullaby.
The firefly perched on the nightstand, its tiny light pulsing slow and steady. Max blinked once. Then again. The house went quiet.
His breathing slowed. The firefly's light dimmed to a whisper. Outside, the moon kept its silent watch over the whole sleeping house.
In the morning, the button would be gone. The moths would fly off into the daylight. But for now, the night held everything safe — the boy, the quiet, the silver light.
The house slept. The boy dreamed. And somewhere beyond the window, the dark sky stayed wide open.
