Milo pats the moonlight on his wall. It ripples under his palm, sliding like slow silver water.
He slides off the bed. Bare feet hit the cold floor. He whispers a tiny hello, and the light spreads a silver path across the floor, toward the door.
He pushes open the back door. Out on the grass, glowing dots sit like little dropped bells, waiting.
He steps on one. Ting. He follows the trail past the tomatoes, past the fence, toward the dark trees. Ting. Ting. Ting.
The path ducks under the brambles. He scrunches up, squeezes through. A thorn pokes right on his nose, and the dots go dark.
He crouches. Looks hard. There—they flicker back, bright, threading between the tree trunks at the edge of the woods.
He steps into the grove. Every tree hums silver. The dots spiral up, up, up to one old oak in the middle, and stop.
He presses both hands flat on the bark. The grove BONGS—deep, deep gold. Every tree lights up. He claps. BONG. Back.
He walks home. The yard is just grass and dirt now. No dots. No glow. Just quiet dark.
He climbs back into bed. The moonlight on his wall is still, quiet—but now it glows soft gold. He watches it. Pulls the blanket up. Smiles.
