Beyond the edge of the sleeping town, past the fields of slumbering sheep and over the Silent Stream, lay a place known only to the moon and the wind. It was a garden, but not one of earthly flowers. Here, nestled amongst pillows of moss and beneath the soft canopy of silver-leafed trees, the fallen stars came to rest. And here lived Leo, the garden’s gentle keeper.
Leo was not a boy of loud noises or hurried games. He moved with the quiet grace of a moth’s wing, and his voice was as soft as the rustle of leaves. His home was a small, round cottage woven from living willow branches, with a roof of thick, fragrant moss and a window that was perfectly round, like a lens for viewing the night sky. Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon in a sigh of pink and gold, Leo’s work would begin.
His tools were not shovels and rakes, but a small watering can made of polished pearl, a tuning fork that hummed with the music of the spheres, and a dusting brush made from the shed feathers of a passing swan. He would walk the winding paths of his garden, his bare feet making no sound on the cool earth. The air here was different; it shimmered with a faint, silvery light and smelled of night-blooming jasmine and cool stone.
Each resident of the garden was a star, a tiny, pulsating orb of light that had, for one reason or another, tumbled from the vast, dark blanket of the sky. Some were old and faded, their light a gentle, sleepy amber. Others were young and skittish, flickering with a bright, nervous energy. They rested in hollows of ancient trees, floated gently on the surface of a crystal-clear pond, or nestled amongst the roots of the great Silverwood at the garden’s heart.
Leo’s job was to care for them. He would give the thirsty ones a drink of pure dew, which he collected in his pearly can. The water didn’t just hydrate them; it seemed to soothe their frantic pulsing, making their light steady and calm. For the stars that seemed sad or lonely, their light tinged with a faint blue, he would use his tuning fork. He would strike it gently against a smooth river stone, and a single, perfect note would rise into the air. The note would hang there, a shimmering thread of sound, and the sad little stars would slowly drift towards it, their blue hues softening into a peaceful white.
He would dust them with the swan-feather brush, clearing away the worries of their long fall, the microscopic motes of fear and doubt that clung to them. As he worked, he would hum. He didn’t know any real songs, not the kind with words and choruses that people sang in the town. His songs were just streams of melody that came to him like the breeze, tunes that spoke of moonbeams and quiet thoughts. The stars seemed to like it. Their light would pulse in a gentle rhythm with his humming, creating a silent symphony of light and sound.
Tonight, a new arrival had come. It had fallen just after dusk, a silent streak of silver that had landed softly in a bed of moon-petal flowers. It was a tiny star, no bigger than Leo’s thumb, and it was terrified. Its light was flickering wildly, like a candle in a gale, and it refused to be soothed. When Leo approached with his watering can, it zipped away, hiding behind a broad fern. When he chimed his tuning fork, it simply trembled, its light growing even more erratic.
Leo sat down on the soft grass a respectful distance away. He didn’t try to approach again. He simply sat and watched the frightened little star. He knew that, just like sleepy children, some stars needed more quiet than others. He began to hum, not for the new star specifically, but for the whole garden. It was a low, gentle tune, a melody that spoke of safety and rest. He hummed of the deep roots of the Silverwood tree, and the silent, patient flow of the nearby stream. He hummed of the moon, a calm and watchful eye in the sky, and of the soft moss that offered a bed to all who were weary.
He didn’t look directly at the star, but he could feel its frantic energy begin to subside. The wild flickering slowed to a nervous pulse. The star crept out from behind the fern, its light a sharp, bright pinpoint in the twilight. It hovered for a moment, listening. Leo continued his song, his eyes on the familiar, comforting branches of the old trees above. The garden was a place of healing. It took time. He had all the time in the world, and all the quiet the little star could ever need. He closed his eyes, his humming becoming a near-silent vibration in the air, a promise of peace in the heart of the magical, starlit dark.