Flicker drags her quilt across the round door, but the dark seeps through the gap — stretching far, far, far.
A tiny gold glow wobbles in: a moth, no bigger than a button. Flicker's ears flatten flat against her head.
"Not helping," she thinks, tugging the quilt tighter. The gap narrows, but the moth just bobs there, patient.
The moth floats up and bumps its soft glow right on her nose. Bloop. Her eyes crinkle shut.
She sneezes, catches the little creature mid-air, and it drops into her pocket. The light pulses there, small and steady, like a candle in a button.
She pulls the pocket to her chin and stares at the door. The gap is still there, still breathing dark.
Flicker holds her glowing pocket up to the gap. The moth hums — one note, two, three — like a blanket being pulled snug.
The dark looks smaller. The glow stretches out, thin and long, reaching toward the round door.
The moth drifts free. Its glow stretches, thins, spreads — and silver moonlight floods the room, turning every quilt square into soft blue.
The dark isn't endless. It's the sky, holding its breath. Then it exhales, and the whole room glows.
Flicker curls into the tall quilted bed, pocket over the moth's gentle pulse. She yawns wide, wide, wide. Moonlight hums across the pastel walls.
Blink. Blink. Blink. The dark is quiet. Flicker breathes out — and the sky breathes back.
