Lumina pulled grandmother's quilt up to her chin on the edge of the bed. Outside the window, the meadow breathed its slow blue-green glow through the glass.
A tiny embroidered moon peeled loose from the fabric. It floated an inch above the blanket, drifting slow toward the window, swaying on the still air.
Lumina's mouth fell open. She lunged to grab the quilt, and the little moon bumped softly against her outstretched palm—cold and round as a coin.
Three more moons lifted off the quilt, each one murmuring a tiny sound that smelled like wet grass and warm mud. Lumina tilted her head closer, listening.
They only whispered meadow things—"the tall blades bow left," "the crickets count to four." Lumina pouted and pressed her ear flat against the blanket. The stitched thread ticked and hummed against her skin.
Lumina sat up straight and pointed. "Where's Grandma?" The nearest moon bobbed and murmured, "the wind carries clover tonight," its little silver glow winking sideways.
She poked it with her finger. The moon dodged, spinning in a tiny loop. Lumina snorted a short laugh and watched them chase each other in a slow circle around her shoulders.
One by one, the moons drifted down and settled across the quilt, arranging themselves near her hands. Their threads glowed soft and steady—not flickering, not running. The room went quiet except for the tick of the clock.
Lumina carried the quilt downstairs, the moons tucked flat against the fabric. She tucked it over grandmother's shoulders in the big chair by the stove. Outside, the meadow still breathed its slow blue-green glow.
Grandmother blinked up, smiled, and patted the quilt once. The tiny moons pulsed—just once—and Lumina whispered "goodnight, moons" to the window, tiptoeing back up the stairs.