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The starlight forest has found its hush. Not the quick hush of someone whispering shh, but the wide, easy kind, where even the river sounds like breathing, and the branches hold the sky so carefully that the stars seem to rest right inside them. Fireflies drift between the oaks slow and golden, weaving threads of light through the dark. They look like tiny lanterns, sewing the blanket of night together, one stitch at a time. Crickets hum their long low note. A fern curls against its neighbor. Somewhere, a beetle tucks itself beneath a leaf and goes still. High in the branches of a large friendly oak, slumber hangs in his fern cradle, that wide curved fern that fits around him like cupped hands. His eyes are half closed, his breathing is slow and even, as the whole clearing settles with him. Everything has found its place for the night. Everything except one small sound. Down among the roots, something moves. A soft, dizzy rustle, too restless to be wind, too careful to be a falling leaf. It comes and goes, comes and goes, like something small turning over and over, trying to find a way to be still and not quite getting there. Slumber's eyes open gently, just one and then the other. He listens. The rustle comes again, and slumber begins to move slowly, softly, the way evening moves through the tops of the trees, gripping one mossy branch with his long claws, then the next, lowering himself through the canopy without disturbing a single leaf. At the base of his oak, curled tight among the roots, is a little hedgehog. His quills, all his little prickles are drawn close, his nose is tucked in, and his small dark eyes are wide open. Not frightened, not lost, just awake. The kind of awake that doesn't come from noise or worry about the dark. The kind that comes from somewhere deeper. A feeling too big for a small body to hold quietly. Slumber settles onto the moss beside him. He doesn't ask anything yet. He just sits, steady and unhurried and sure. The forest holds its breath. Then, after a long moment, the hedgehog whispers it. He doesn't say it loudly. He says it the way you say something when you've been thinking about it for a long, long time. Someone I love is very far away tonight. Slumber's deep eyes fill with something warm. He doesn't try to shrink the distance. He doesn't say, Don't worry, or it's fine, or you'll see them soon. He just nods, slow as a branch dipping in a breeze, and lets the words be exactly what they are. That's a very big feeling to carry on your own, he says, his voice warm and low, like honey tea poured into a favourite cup. The hedgehog's quills tremble just a little. Would you like to walk with me? Slumber asks. They walk together through the nighttime forest, one slow, one small, past ferns curled like sleeping cats, past the birch tree with the crooked branch, its white bark glowing like a candle left burning for someone out there. Fireflies drift alongside them, not leading, not following, just there, the way good company is there, lighting each small step as it comes. Neither of them hurries. The river hums somewhere beneath the trees. A steady song that has been playing since the very first rain found its way through the forest floor long ago. And the trees open. There at the heart of the forest it stands. The wish tree. It is old, older than the oaks, older than the river, older than the paths that wind between them. Its bark glows softly from within, warm and patient. The way a window glows when someone has left a light on for you, sure you'd come. Its low branches hang heavy with ribbons and folded notes, turning softly. The quiet wishes of every creature who ever passed this way. The hedgehog's eyes grow wide. Slumber reaches down to a mossy root with one long claw and lifts a small ribbon, pale as moonlight, smooth as moss, and sets it carefully on the ground before the hedgehog. You tie your wish to a branch. Slumber says softly, You don't have to say it loudly. Just say it true. The hedgehog picks up the ribbon in its mouth and carries it to a low branch. He stands on his back legs, and quietly, barely louder than breathing, he speaks his wish into the dark. Then he ties it, a careful loop around the branch, and the ribbon hangs there among all the others, turning in a breeze so faint it barely stirs the leaves. The hedgehog looks up through the wish tree's branches, and there they are, the stars, clear and close, caught in the gaps between leaves and ribbons like bright seeds in dark soil, so many of them, more than anyone could count, all shining with the same quiet, steady light. Slumber speaks slowly, the way true things need to be said. Do you think those are the same stars shining over wherever your someone is tonight? The hedgehog is quiet for a moment. The cricket song thins to a single thread. The river holds its note. Then slowly. Yes, the same ones. Slumber nods. The wish tree taught me something once a long time ago. A wish tide here doesn't stay here, it rises. His voice is low and short, like the hum of the tree itself, and somewhere far away someone who loves you is looking up at the very same sky, and their wish is rising too. They meet in the middle, in the space between the stars, like two ribbons finding the same branch. He looks down at the hedgehog. Shall we breathe with the tree for a moment? And they do one slow breath in, one slow breath out, and the whole forest seems to breathe with them. The hedgehog breathes in, honeysuckle, cool bark, night air, and breathes out. The wish tree's hum deepens, a low, warm, held note that seems to fill the clearing the way lamplight fills a room. The distance doesn't shrink, but it grows warm. It fills with something shared, a sky that belongs to both of them. The hedgehog here and someone far away, both looking up, both held by the same slow, gentle dark. The hedgehog's quills soften. Slowly he uncurls just a little and leans into the moss at the base of the wish tree. Above him the ribbon turns in its faint breeze. Around him the forest breathes, one long, warm, unhurried breath. Slumber grips the low branch above with his long claws and settles there, not leaving, not hovering, just present. The way a good sky is present, the way stars are present, even when you close your eyes and trust they're still there. The fireflies dim to their slowest pulse, the river hums its steady distant song. The whole forest goes quiet, a warm quiet, a full quiet, a quiet that holds everything inside it. And the little hedgehog who could not settle closes his eyes not because the missing has gone, but because it has company now. The same stars, the same sky, the same slow night holding everyone, those who are here and those who are far away, all under the same wide, unhurried dark. The missing hasn't gone, but it has changed shape from something lonely to something held, like a ribbon tied to a branch, turning softly in a sky that belongs to both of them. If you are listening alone tonight, imagine slumber nearby on a low branch and the sky above you full of every wish that was ever sent your way. You are safe. You are loved. When the sun rests, we can rest too. And everything good, even the things that feel far away are closer than what you think.