The grass was warm where the sun had been, and a long patch of light lay across the hill.

Rill saw it first. “Race you,” he said. Bracken came over. “Race who?” “The light.” Peeba arrived, crumbs on his whiskers. “I do not sprint,” he said. “I meander.” Thimble looked out from behind a dandelion. “Is it moving?”

The light slipped forward. “It moved,” Rill said. They stood at the edge. “Go.”

Rill slid forward, Bracken hopped beside him, and Thimble followed, but the light moved ahead—thinner, then gone—while the grass held the warmth.

Rill lay down first, Bracken leaned beside him, Thimble sat close, and Peeba settled in last, and they stayed there. “Again tomorrow?” Rill said. “Again tomorrow.”

Along the stream, a stone held what the sun had left. Bracken sat down. “It is still warm.” Peeba lowered beside him. “Mmm. Leftover sun.” Thimble touched the stone. “It keeps the warmth.” They stayed there together.

The warmth faded. Not gone. Just less. They stood again, and the stone cooled while the water moved beside them.

A small sound came from the tall grass. Bracken turned. “Do you hear it?” Peeba listened. “Mmm. It is almost nothing.” Thimble leaned closer to the grass. “It is here.” Rill stopped, and they moved through the stems.

A cricket rubbed its legs together. Chirp. Pause. Chirp.

“Oh,” Bracken said softly. “That is you.”

The cricket chirped once more, then it stopped. The tall grass held still, and the meadow rested too.

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