Fefè goes down into the garden and reaches toward the grass, ready to gather the little stars that have fallen. The lawn welcomes her with the scent of earth and fresh dew.
She looks up: above the hill, the sky is black. Black, black, not a single star in sight. Her little hands rummage through the leaves and find only cold, damp grass.
She shakes the bushes, peeks behind the stones, crouches under the bench. "They're there, right?" she whispers. All that comes back is gray silence and the crackle of dry leaves.
Fefè sits down on the grass, rests her chin on her arms, and stares at the empty sky above the hill. "Where is the light?" she thinks, perfectly still.
She runs inside. In the kitchen drawer, she finds her little red candle and snatches it up. Wood creaks under her shoes.
The flame is tiny, yellow, and trembles in the dark. The steps creak under her feet, one at a time. Slowly, slowly, she makes it to the window.
Fefè sets the candle on the railing and holds her open palm out toward the sky. Her fingers are slightly spread, like a little dish offered to the wind.
A tiny golden star drifts down, slowly, slowly, like a grain of flour. It lands right on her palm. The candle's flame goes out on its own, and a wisp of smoke curls upward.
Above the hill, the sky bursts with a hundred new stars. They twinkle—one, two, a hundred—as if someone had sprinkled golden flour over a dark sheet.
Fefè slowly opens her hand. The little star lifts off, glides away, and goes to join the others. Her fingers are left empty, just the faintest warmth.
She stays seated on the railing, her legs dangling into the darkness. Below, the garden glows with that new shimmer. The candle, now just plain white wax, rests on the windowsill.
"That's enough for tonight." Fefè watches the stars shimmer above the hill, one after another. The garden sings with new light. Enough.
