Four little bodies crash into something solid on the bedroom floor. A wooden box. No label. No lock.
One tugs the lid. Stuck. They all lean in, shoulders pressing. Creak. Groan. Pop — the lid swings wide.
Four pockets glow inside: red, blue, green, gold. Each sibling grabs one. The light hums against small palms.
They hold the pockets up. Red. Blue. Green. Gold. The colours sway slow over the quilt like four slow lampions.
The gold one flickers. Dies. They shake it. Blow on it. Press it flat against the floor. Nothing.
One sibling points at the dark pocket, then at the others. "Together."
They slide all four pockets to the centre of the rug and press them flat. The gold one flares. Then all four burst — red, blue, green, gold spinning slow.
The walls bloom. One sibling gasps. "Look!" Colour climbs the plaster like living vines, past the window, into the dark.
Blanks up to chins. The four lights rest on the nightstand. Pulsing. In. Out. In. Out.
"Same dreams tonight?" one mumbles. A small giggle. The lights dim soft. Dark takes the room.
