Maya and the Sleepy Star
Maya was already in her pyjamas when she heard the tap-tap-tapping on her window.
It was not the wind. The wind did not tap politely.
She tiptoed across the rug, past Biscuit (who was pretending very hard to be asleep), and pulled back the curtain.
There, hovering just outside the glass, was a small, glowing star. A very small one. Smaller than her hand.
“Hello,” said the star, in a voice like a yawn. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you. I’ve forgotten how to get home.”
Maya opened the window a crack. The star drifted in and settled, very softly, on her pillow.
“Home is up there,” said Maya kindly, pointing.
“Yes,” said the star, who looked a bit embarrassed. “But which one?”
Maya thought about this. From down here, all the stars looked the same — bright, twinkly, far away. But she remembered something her grandad had told her about the brightest stars travelling in patterns, like trails of breadcrumbs.
“Biscuit,” she whispered, “we have a job to do.”
Biscuit opened one eye, which is the cat way of saying yes.
Maya carried the little star to the window. Biscuit sat on the sill, his tail flicking. Together, the three of them looked out at the sky.
“That one,” said Maya, pointing at a star that twinkled a little more slowly than the others, as if it were waving. “That one looks like it’s missing somebody.”
The little star gasped — a soft, sparkly sort of gasp. “That’s my mum.”
It rose up off the pillow, getting brighter and brighter, and floated gently out of the window. Maya watched it climb back into the sky and tuck itself in beside the slow-twinkling star. The two of them shone together for a moment, just for her, before settling into the quiet patterns of the night.
Biscuit purred.
Maya closed the curtain.
And as she climbed into bed, she could still see, through the gap, that little star — back where it belonged.
Just like her.
The end.