Twinkle flickers in the corner of the night sky, hovering near the thickest clouds. She squeezes her eyes shut and flaps her arms, but only a wisp of yellow light escapes.
The big stars overhead blaze like lanterns, and Twinkle watches them with her chin buried in her knees.
Twinkle tries to climb higher, stretching her tiny legs toward the bright cluster in the center of the sky.
The wind tugs at her dress and pushes her back down, soft as dandelion fluff. She lands with a whisper and stares at her hands, which glow no brighter than a firefly trapped in a jar.
A little boy in his pajamas wanders out onto the back porch, looking left and right under a sky full of blazing stars that he can't quite see.
Twinkle gasps, pushes past a slow-moving cloud, and drops low—so low the house roof brushes her toes.
Her light catches the stone path and paints a golden ribbon straight to the front door. The boy follows the glow, his sleepy face turning toward it like a flower turning to sun.
Twinkle hovers beside the glowing path, her light steady and warm against the dark.
The boy reaches the doorstep, looks up, and whispers, 'Thank you, little star.'
Twinkle smiles so hard her edges shimmer, and she stays low all night, keeping her ribbon of light on the ground where it belongs.
The village sleeps quietly while the golden ribbon stays on the path, and the little star keeps her watch.
Up above, the big stars still blaze like lanterns. But down below, the little star found her place — and it was enough.
