The garden was hushed, the kind of hush that feels soft around the ears. Somewhere, a cricket chirped, all by itself. I curled my toes in the grass, wishing the green could reach inside and fill up the empty spot where Mommy should be. Fireflies blinked on and off in the dim light, their tiny lanterns winking through the shadows. I wanted to catch one, to keep it in my pocket, so I’d have a piece of glow to hold onto, just in case the night got too dark.
I thought about what Mommy had said: “Even when I’m not with you, my love is.” But it was hard to believe in invisible things. Love, like hugs and kisses and bedtime stories—those all felt real when she was here. Now, I pressed my palm against my chest, almost like I could touch the place where love might hide.
A gentle breeze danced past, brushing my cheeks, and for a moment, it felt like a kiss goodnight. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember how Mommy’s voice sounded when she’d say, “Goodnight, Little Heart.” If I tried hard enough, maybe I could hear her in the breeze, in the swish of the leaves. I let my head tip back, looking for her face in the first evening stars, wondering if she could see me from wherever she was.
The door to the house creaked. The porch light blinked on. I knew it was time to go inside, but my feet were heavy. My shoes seemed stuck in the soft earth, tied down by longing. I plucked a dandelion puff from the grass and blew on it, sending little wishes sailing up into the sky. I wished for Mommy’s arms, for her song, for the ache to turn into something softer.
Just as I was about to stand, a gentle paw pressed against my leg. I looked down to see Momo, our old gray cat, blinking up at me with her slow, wise eyes. She hopped onto my lap, warm and solid, her fur like a blanket I didn’t know I needed. I let out a shaky breath. Momo didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. She just purred—a quiet rumble, steady and sure.
I stroked Momo’s fur, my fingers tangling in her soft fluff. As she curled up, I whispered, “Do you think Mommy misses me too?” Momo just purred louder, and the warmth spread from my lap to my chest, soothing the sharpest edge of the ache.
A light flickered in the kitchen window. Someone moved inside—Grandma, probably, with her gentle eyes and her cocoa that always tasted like bedtime. Warm yellow light spilled across the porch, welcoming and bright. The night pressed in at the edges, but inside, there was the promise of gentle hands, tucked blankets, and maybe a story or two.
The fireflies dipped lower in the garden, winking their slow goodnights. Momo yawned, stretching so her paws brushed the grass, then bumped her head against my chin. Somehow, it was enough. Not the same as Mommy, but enough to make the night less empty, enough to remind me that love could be soft and quiet, lighting up the dark in ways I didn’t expect.
Just as I stood to carry Momo inside, I heard a faint tinkle—like a music box, or the sound of Mommy’s laughter caught on the wind. I turned toward the garden’s edge, heart thumping, hope leaping inside me. Was it just the wind, or something else? The shadows shifted, and for an instant, I saw something move—something that glimmered, small and bright, just beyond the hedge.
Momo’s ears perked up. The night seemed to hold its breath. I hesitated, one foot on the step, caught between the safe glow of the house and the strange, shining spark at the garden’s edge. Whatever it was, it was waiting for me.