Milo and the Missing Window-Star

Milo's workshop smelled of warm brass and lemon oil. Shelves leaned under tiny gears in glass jars, and clocks of every size arranged themselves like sleepy houses on the walls. A small window looked out over Gearford's square, where lamplighters walked in careful circles and steam rose from the baker's cart like soft clouds. Milo sat on a low stool with a screwdriver between his fingers and a mechanical owl called Tick balanced on his shoulder, its brass feathers catching the lamp glow.

Tick clicked once and wound down the newest toy heart Milo had repaired. The sound was familiar, as comforting as a lullaby. Outside, people closed shutters, and the market's long tables folded up like sleeping hedgehogs. The town had a habit: each house hung a little glass globe in the window every evening. These were the window-stars, tiny captures of evening light that blinked in the same order each night, like a pattern the town taught itself to breathe by.

Milo had learned to make the globes with his grandfather. The glass had been blown in a bellows that smelled of orange peel and soot. His grandfather had taught him how to crimp silver wire around each one so the light wouldn't leak. "A stitch for every star," his grandfather would say, tapping the wire with a stubby finger. "Keep them steady, and the night will know the way."

Tonight the square felt a little hollow. The baker's window, which always held the brightest globe—Aurora, the town's favorite—had an empty hook. Milo's fingers found that empty space in the air as if it were a small, cool hole. He could almost hear the absence like a missing chime inside a clock.

Mrs. Bram, who lived across the lane, peered from behind her curtain. "Did you see?" she whispered to the empty street. Her voice was folded into the wind. "A window without a star."

Milo stood and pressed his forehead to the cool glass. The sky was deep and full of distant lights, but near the square the darkness looked like a smooth cloth with a round shape cut from it. A thin, silver thread trembled there, as if someone had snagged the sky while walking past. Milo could feel a tiny tug at the edge of his chest, an impatience that tasted like mild cocoa.

Tick ruffled a feather and made a soft, metallic coo. Milo reached for the old workbench where his grandfather's tools lay in stillness. Beneath a velvet rag, something small and familiar pressed warm against his palm: a bronze key, its head stamped with a sun and a moon intertwined. Milo blew the dust from it and, for the first time since his grandfather's chair sat empty, felt a kind of answering warmth under his skin.