Mia pressed her nose against the cool window glass. "Goodnight, little moon," she whispered.
The moon hung high and still, casting silver stripes across her quilt. It looked right back at her like a friendly eye.
The next evening, Mia leaned closer to the glass. "Goodnight, little moon, are you there?"
A bird called once from the oak tree. Mia frowned at the empty sky where the moon used to feel closer.
On the third night, Mia held up a paper star she had made. "Goodnight, little moon, look what I made."
The moon dipped lower than she had ever seen it. Then it twinkled — once, twice, three times — right back at her.
Mia's eyes went wide. She pressed both palms against the window and giggled. "You can see me?"
The moon twinkled again, softer this time. The silver stripes on her quilt seemed to dance across the whole room.