The daycare was quiet, the gentle hum of the nightlights filling the space as all the other children lay fast asleep on their mats. The soft lullaby playing overhead should have made your eyes heavy, just like it did for everyone else. But no matter how much you tossed and turned, you couldn’t sleep.

You shifted onto your side, squeezing your stuffed animal close. Maybe if you held it just right, sleep would come. But the mat felt too lumpy, the blanket too warm, and the room too quiet, aside from the occasional rustling of the curtains.

A soft creak sounded from above, and then the faintest jingle of bells. You stilled. There was only one person in the daycare who moved so silently, like a shadow slipping through the dark.

Moondrop.

The daycare attendant glided across the room, weaving effortlessly between the sleeping children. When his glowing red eyes landed on you, still awake, still fidgeting, he tilted his head. Then, without a sound, he crouched beside your mat, long fingers resting lightly on the floor.

“Little one,” he whispered, his voice as soft as the night. “Still awake?”

You nodded, gripping your stuffed animal tighter.

Moondrop hummed, thoughtful. “The stars are sleeping,” he murmured, glancing toward the ceiling as if he could see them beyond it. “Shouldn’t you be, too?”

When you didn’t answer, he leaned in just a bit, his bells jingling softly. “What’s wrong, stardust? Having trouble drifting off?”