The Bear Who Wakes at Moonrise
The nursery breathes in gold and shadow, the last of the lamplight melting slow as honey across the walls. Outside, the sky has traded its blue for deep plum, and one by one, stars are stitching themselves into the dark like tiny silver buttons. The curtains sway with a hush of night breeze, in and out, in and out, as though the room itself has begun to doze.
On the dresser, the lullaby music box turns its final circles, its tune stretching thin and slow, each note falling a little further behind the last. *Plink... plink... plink.* A tired song for a tired baby, winding down the way all good days must.
Little Sleepy Baby lies nestled in the crib, round cheeks flushed pink from the bath, damp curls curling softer than usual against the pillow. Two small fists grip the edge of a well-loved blanket, and clutched tight beneath one arm is Snuggly Bear — soft, brown, one ear a little flattened from years of hugging, button eyes catching the last shimmer of lamplight before it fades to silver.
"Not sleepy," Little Sleepy Baby mumbles, though the words come out slurred and heavy, tangled with a yawn too big to hide. The baby's eyes blink — slow, slower, slowest — like tiny curtains…
