A very small light
Just beyond the North Pole greenhouse, Twinkle noticed a tiny flicker in the snow. It was not a firefly. It was not a lost Christmas light. It was a star, scarcely bigger than a mitten, with five shivering points. Alex crouched beside it. “You look a long way from home.” The star gave a little sigh. “I came down because I’m not very good at shining.”
No need to be the brightest
They tucked the star into a woolly mitten and sat beneath the greenhouse window. “The big stars make whole snowfields sparkle,” it whispered. “I can only light this little patch.” Twinkle looked down. In that little patch, a sleeping snowdrop had opened its petals. Alex smiled. “The flower found your light.” For the first time that evening, the star’s five points stopped trembling.
A plan made of paper
“I think I’d like to go home,” said the star. “But how?” Inside the greenhouse, Alex found tissue paper and two smooth twigs. Twinkle brought a spool of moon-silver thread. Together they made a kite with a snug pocket in its middle. Their first knot slipped. Their second held. “Good things sometimes take another try,” said Alex, giving the knot one careful tug.
Waiting for the wind
On a low snowy hill, they settled the star into its pocket. Twinkle lifted the kite. It flopped. They tried again. Flop! So they stopped rushing and listened. A soft shhhhh moved through the fir trees. “Here it comes,” whispered Alex. This time, the breeze lifted the paper gently. Up went the kite, carrying one little star and two enormous hopes.
A place in the sky
Higher and higher the kite climbed, until the star could see a familiar curve of lights. There was its place, between a bright blue star and a tiny silver one. Neither had filled the gap. They had been waiting. The little star stepped out of the paper pocket and began to glow: not the brightest light, not the biggest, but a warm, steady light all its own.
Enough, exactly as you are
The empty kite fluttered back into Alex’s arms. Beside the greenhouse, the snowdrop was still open. Above it, their new friend twinkled three times. Twinkle tucked the silver thread into a pocket. “Do you think it will remember?” Alex looked at the small, steady sparkle. “We can remind it.” And whenever either friend felt a little too small, they looked up at the sky—and remembered there was room for their light, too.