Lucy was five years old. She had a rag bunny called Cotton and a lamp shaped like the moon. Every night, before bed, she asked Mom the same thing: “Please don’t turn off the light.” Because when the light went off, the room filled up with shadows. The chair looked like a monster. The closet looked like a cave. And the curtain moved all by itself.
One night, while Mom was kissing her goodnight, Lucy heard a tiny little sound. It came from the lamp. A soft tinkling, as if someone were giggling very quietly. Lucy leaned closer and peeked inside, very carefully. There, curled up like kittens, ten tiny stars were fast asleep. “Who are you?” Lucy whispered. The smallest star opened one eye and yawned. “We’re the stars of your room,” it said. “We live here, but we rest during the day.” “Then why do you never come out?” Lucy asked. “Because when the light is on, nobody can see us,” said the little star. “We need the dark to shine.” Lucy looked at Cotton. Cotton looked at Lucy. They were both a little bit scared. “If I turn off the light, will you come out?” she asked at last. “We promise,” said all ten stars at once.
Lucy took a deep breath, hugged Cotton tight, and asked Mom to turn off the light. Click. Everything went dark. For a moment, nothing happened. Lucy counted slowly: one, two, three. And then, one by one, the stars floated out of the lamp. They drifted up to the ceiling, leaving a golden trail, like sprinkles of sugar. Up there, they made a path that went all the way from the window to her pillow.
“Look, Cotton!” said Lucy. “A path of stars!” The smallest star floated down to her nose and tickled it. “See?” it said. “The dark doesn’t hide monsters. It hides things that shine.” Lucy looked at the chair. It didn’t look like a monster anymore. It was just a chair with her jacket on it. She looked at the closet. It didn’t look like a cave anymore. It was just a closet full of clothes. And the curtain moved because the window was open a crack, and a soft breeze came in.
“Will you stay all night?” Lucy asked, her eyes half closed. “All night,” said the little star. “And tomorrow too. Whenever you turn off the light.” Lucy smiled and hugged Cotton a little tighter. And for the very first time, the dark felt like the sky having a rest. The stars twinkled softly, very softly, so they wouldn’t wake her. Goodnight, Lucy. Goodnight, Cotton. Goodnight, stars.