High in the velvet sky, Twinkle tried to twinkle. But the big stars shone so loudly, her tiny spark vanished. She pulled her edges in tight and drifted away.
She pulled her points in close, hiding behind a cloud. The night breeze cooled her silver surface. Twinkle felt very small among the giant constellations.
Twinkle zoomed toward a sleepy town, but a sneezing owl blew her off course. She landed on a wobbly satellite dish — SPIN! — and tumbled back up into the dark.
She tumbled in dizzy circles. The cold metal felt slippery under her points. Twinkle whirled up and up into the black sky, breathless and lost.
On a wooden porch, a child looked up. Her eyes went wide. She pointed a finger straight at the sky and shouted, 'Look, the sweetest star is the littlest one!'
The big stars paused, as if listening. Twinkle froze. Her spark flickered once, then twice — soft, steady, and brave.
Twinkle pulsed a steady glow that danced on the child's windowsill. The night felt cozy. The distant town lights seemed to wink in time with her.
She stayed right there, small and shining, exactly where she belonged. Twinkle twinkled — soft, steady, and happy.