I’m practicing my best “boo!” but the Shadows keep shushing me. “Too early,” they whisper, tugging curtains across the hall. Fine. I can wait. Mostly.

I set the scene anyway: a mirror that likes drama, a broom that squeaks on cue, and three dust bunnies in tiny capes. I line moonbeams on the floor like stepping-stones and tell them, “When I clap, jump!” They shimmer. Showoffs.

Countdown time. Ten… nine… oops, lost count because a beam tried to tickle my nose. I add a rule: no tickling the host. The broom nods (rude but fair). I tuck spare giggles under the stairs in case anyone forgets to laugh.

When the night finally strolls in with its big grin, I’m ready—eyes wide, grin bright. I don’t bite. I delight. The Shadows roll their eyes but smile anyway. That’s a win.

The Lake practiced being still tonight. I floated just under the surface, listening to the tiny sounds water makes when it thinks. The mist arrived early and laid a soft veil over everything.

I waited for the moon. She can be shy. When she peeked out, her light drew silver rings around my tail. I swam through them like hoops and laughed bubbles that tickled my nose.

There was no crowd—just reeds, stars, and the patient shore. That felt right. Some nights are for quiet promises you keep to yourself.

Before I dove, I waved my tail at the moon’s reflection. It waved back, wobbly and kind. Ceremony complete.

The Peaks sleep under soft blankets tonight. Snow piles up on lanterns that forgot to go out, turning their glow into halos. I kneel beside one and blow gently. The frost dances off like tiny ghosts on break.

I love how light behaves up here. It doesn’t brag—it waits. Even the stars blink slow, taking turns so nobody feels left out. The cold hums through my coat, reminding me that silence can be cozy when it’s full of small sparks.

I scoop a handful of snow, press it into a ball, and place it beside the lantern. A little gift. Maybe the wind will roll it away and start a story somewhere else.

When morning comes, the Peaks will shine again. For now, I let the lantern sleep. Not every glow has to prove itself tonight.

The Dunes like to whisper secrets through every grain. I brewed my evening tea and told them a riddle: “What shines brightest when nobody looks?” They rustled for a bit before answering—kindness. Clever bunch.

The steam smelled of cinnamon and moonlight. It curled into shapes that tried to act wise but couldn’t stop giggling. I poured three cups: one for me, one for the wind, and one for the traveler who doesn’t know they’re lost yet. The desert always shares eventually.

When I laughed, the sand laughed too, tiny avalanches clapping in rhythm. Even the stars leaned closer to listen. “Good show,” they twinkled. The dunes took a bow. I think they enjoy my company more than they admit.

I packed the kettle, left the cups, and walked until the laughter turned to hush. The desert keeps secrets well—but laughter always finds a way to echo back.

The Forest woke up stiff, like it slept funny on its roots. I brought a basket of stubby gourds and a pocket full of dry needles for easy starts. Not for a big show—just to warm up the paths critters actually use.

I set lanterns near the fern hollow, the secret-keeping stump, and the joke-telling brook. The squirrels inspected my work with serious faces. Tough crowd. Then they approved with tail flicks. I’ll take it.

I hummed a low tune that sounded like the ground clearing its throat. Sunbeams finally squeezed through the branches and made polite puddles of gold. “There you are,” I said. “Don’t be strangers.”

By the time the breeze found us, the understory felt awake and friendly. That’s all I wanted—light that says, “Welcome.”

The Ruins glitter in that special hour when the sun bows to the moon. Light slides across the stones like silk ribbons, and even the dust looks fancy. I perch on a broken wall, tail swishing, watching the day pack up its glow.

Everyone loves the moon, but I think the sun deserves a good send-off. It worked all day, poor dear. So I raise my mirror shard and catch the last beam just right. It bounces around the pillars, golden and dramatic. Perfect exit.

The first stars peek out, giggling behind clouds. I wink back. The Ruins smell like warm stone and sleepy stories. I stretch, yawn, and promise to greet the moon properly next time. Balance, after all, takes practice—even for queens.

When night settles, the ribbons fade, but the glow stays tucked under my fur. The Ruins may rest, but I’ll keep the sparkle safe until dawn.

The Hollow isn’t empty; it just talks in whispers. Frost glitters on the stones like breadcrumbs for anyone brave enough to follow. I pull my scarf tight and start walking. Each step puffs out a tiny cloud that vanishes before I can name it.

Under one stone, a match waits. I strike it and cup my hands around the spark. The flame shivers, then stands tall—small, yes, but stubborn. I nod. “Me too.”

The path curves between icy trees that hum when the wind sneaks through their ribs. I light another match, then another, leaving little pools of gold behind me. They’re not much, but together they draw a line of warmth through the cold.

When I reach the clearing, dawn is already brushing color on the snow. I look back. The matches glow like tiny suns, marking where I’ve been and where I’ll go next.

The Trench hums again, low and steady like a heartbeat that forgot to rush. I drift above the glowing vents, feeling the warmth on my tentacles. Tiny fish blink in code, telling jokes too short to understand. Still, I laugh. It helps the water feel lighter.

I let the current push me in a slow circle. The hum grows louder, wrapping around me like a song only the sea remembers. Up above, the world breaks waves and shouts about storms. Down here, everything listens first.

A whale passes, humming its own verse. We overlap for a moment—me, the song, and the whale. The sound fills the dark until it feels like dawn might live here too.

When the rhythm fades, I stay still, quiet but not alone. The deep never sleeps; it just keeps time.

The Desert buzzes like it’s holding its breath. Perfect running weather. I’ve been tying little glow gourds to the tops of dunes—boop, boop, boop—so I can race them later. They don’t know it yet, but they’re going to lose.

I test one. It hangs there, cool and bright, like a tiny moon that owes me a favor. The wind kicks sand at my ankles. I grin back. “Save it for the race,” I say, but my paws already itch to go.

I patch a strap, chew a twig that tastes like cinnamon, and stretch until the stars blink awake. Waiting isn’t my thing, but this kind of waiting has speed inside it—like a drum roll that lasts all evening.

When the night finally shouts “Now!”, I’ll dash gourd to gourd, leaving a comet trail of sand. The dunes will pretend not to watch. They always watch.

Fog writes soft lines across the Marsh. I press shallow trays in the mud, one after another, like quiet footprints that know where they’re going. No candles yet. The waiting is part of the glow.

I set a pebble in each tray so they won’t tip when the ripples arrive. The reeds lean over to look. “Soon,” I tell them. They rustle like pages turning.

I imagine the first match: a hush, then a tiny yes. Owls blink like punctuation in the trees—little blinks for little thoughts. The mist curls around my wings and makes everything feel close.

When the night is ready, I’ll light the nearest tray and watch the small light teach the fog to shine. For now, I let the anticipation settle.