Oscar and the Unicorn

Once, just as the lamps went out and the house grew quiet, Oscar put one small foot over the edge of sleep and found a whole world waiting there. It began with a meadow of silver grass that leaned like a whispered secret. Oscar stood very still, the way you do when something is beautiful and a little bit new.

Then came a sound, soft as a page turning, and there in front of Oscar was a unicorn with a shy mane and hooves that made no sound at all. “You are just in time,” it said. “We have a small problem, and small problems are the best kind, because they can be mended before bedtime.”

The trouble was this: a storm had scattered the meadow’s butterflies far and wide. Oscar looked at the problem, and the problem looked back, and for a moment nobody knew what to do. That is allowed. Every good story has a moment where nobody knows what to do.

So Oscar did the quiet brave thing. they coaxed each butterfly home with a little patience and a little clover. It took a while. Brave things usually do. And when it was finished, the world let out a long, contented breath, the sort of breath that means everything is where it should be.

“Will you remember me?” asked Oscar. “Every night,” came the answer. “That is what this place is for.” And the meadow lay down flat, and the moon put its coat over the hill.

Then the world began to fold itself away, softly, the way a blanket folds. Oscar came back to a warm bed and a quiet room, carrying the sort of tiredness that comes from a good day. The stars kept watch. The house settled. And sleep arrived, gentle as a story.