The Bud on the Sill
The wind stopped pulling at Lumi's coat, and the sky went quiet all at once. She climbed the last of the cloud stairs with her box held against her chest. The new room was round. It had one window, and the window had a sill, and the sill was wide and white. Lumi set the box down in the middle of the floor. Everything in here smelled like cold air and nothing else yet. She stood very still and looked around.
"Hello, room," Lumi said. The room did not answer, so she began. Out came her blue cup. Out came her flat soft pillow, the one squashed just right. Out came the little wooden bird with the chipped tail. She lined them up on the floor the way they had been at home. They looked small. The room looked big. Lumi sat down beside them and let her feet swing over the edge of the cloud.
Then she saw it. On the sill, near the window, grew a bud. It was pale and folded and about the size of her fist. Lumi leaned close. Light moved inside it, slow as milk, slipping along the seams between the petals. The bud was shut tight. "Oh," said Lumi. "You have a light in there." The bud did nothing. Outside, the last rain slid off the clouds and fell away into the dark.
Lumi touched one petal with one finger. It was cool and a little damp. She tried, very gently, to lift the edge. The petal held on. She did not pull harder. She took her finger back and folded her hands in her lap. "Take your time," Lumi said. "I'm here." She sat on the floor by the sill and waited. The light inside the bud went slowly round, like something turning over in its sleep.
Waiting is easier with work. Lumi stood up and carried the wooden bird to the sill and set it beside the bud. She hung her blanket over the end of the new bed. She put the blue cup on the little shelf, handle out, the way her hand liked it. Each thing she moved made the room a bit less new. She checked the bud. Still shut. Still glowing, faint, along its folds.
A grey swift came in through the window and landed on the sill. It shook the rain off its back in a small bright shower. It looked at the bud. It looked at Lumi. "It isn't open yet," Lumi whispered. The swift tucked one foot up and waited with her for a while, the way birds do, without saying anything at all. Then it slipped out again into the soft high quiet.
Lumi lay on her front with her chin on her arms. She hummed the song from the old house, the one with the long note in the middle. The light in the bud came up a little. She hummed it again. The light came up a little more. "Take your time," Lumi said. "I'm here." Outside, the clouds lay flat and still, and far below, the world turned over under them.
Then one petal let go. It leaned back, slow as a yawn, and another followed, and another, until the bud sat open like a small white bowl. Light poured out of it. It filled the round room and ran along the floor. It found the blue cup. It found the wooden bird and made its chipped tail glow. It found Lumi's blanket and warmed the edge of it. The room had shadows now, and they were her own shadows.
Lumi climbed into bed and pulled the blanket to her chin. Steps came up the cloud stairs, soft ones she knew. Someone sat down on the edge of the bed. Lumi reached out and a warm hand closed round hers. "Take your time," Lumi said. "I'm here." The open bud glowed on the sill. The wooden bird kept watch. Her eyes closed, and the hand stayed where it was, holding on.