In a kingdom where the moonlight always looked a little like spilled milk on the hills, there lived a princess named Liora. She had hair the color of toasted sugar and eyes that shone the soft blue of early morning. Liora’s favorite time of day was just before sleep, when the world grew quiet and the stars put on their twinkling cloaks. That was when her dreams came, bright and strange and full of colors she could not name.

Every night, Liora slept in a tall tower with round windows that looked over the whole kingdom. The tower was wrapped with climbing roses and silver ivy, and it had a roof shaped like the tip of a wizard’s hat. Her bed was carved from pale wood and covered in patchwork quilts sewn by her grandmother. Above it, tiny glass bells hung from the ceiling and chimed gently when the wind breathed through the window.

Liora’s dreams were never ordinary. In them, rivers flowed backward and sang lullabies, birds painted the sky with their wings, and giant turtles carried gardens on their backs. Liora met talking clouds, polite dragons, and once, a very serious watermelon who wore spectacles and gave her advice about socks. She always woke smiling, hugging her pillow, and whispering, “Thank you, dreams.”

One night, as the moon climbed high and round, Liora climbed into bed with her favorite stuffed fox, Milo, tucked under her arm. She brushed his soft ears and told him, “Tonight I want a dream about something new. Something I have never seen before.” The wind curled through the window and made the glass bells sing, as if to say, “Very well.”

Liora closed her eyes, and the world of waking slipped away like a boat drifting from its dock. She found herself standing in a meadow of glowing dandelions, each puffball shining like a tiny lantern. Above her, the sky was the color of ripe plums, scattered with bright, slow-moving stars. A path of stepping stones, each one made of silver glass, led into a forest of tall, blue-leafed trees.

She followed the glass stones into the forest. The trees hummed quietly, as if they were singing without words. Fireflies floated between their trunks, drawing soft green lines in the air. In the center of the forest, Liora found a small pond so still it looked like a round mirror set into the ground. On its surface, her reflection smiled back at her, but something about it seemed a little different.

Her reflection blinked, then waved. Liora gasped and waved back. “Hello,” her reflection said, although its lips did not move quite in time with her own. “I have been waiting.” Liora tilted her head, puzzled. “Waiting for what?” “Waiting for you to notice,” the reflection answered. “That I am more than a picture in the water.”

Before Liora could ask what that meant, a silver fish leaped from the pond, glittering in the strange plum-colored sky. Its scales shone like tiny mirrors, and as it arched through the air, Liora saw a thousand tiny images of herself and the forest reflected on its sides. The fish laughed, a watery, bubbly giggle, and splashed back into the pond, sending little rings across the surface.

The ripples spread outward, and as they did, the forest around her began to blur. The blue leaves smeared into streaks of color. The glowing dandelions stretched into bright lines. Liora felt herself growing lighter, as if she were made of feathers. She heard a distant bell, the sound of morning in her tower, and the dream started to slip away.

Liora woke up in her bed with Milo tucked under her chin. Sunlight was peeking around the curtains in soft golden fingers. She stretched and yawned, then smiled as the memory of the glowing dandelions and the talking reflection came back to her. “What a nice dream,” she murmured. She swung her legs out of bed and padded across the warm wooden floor to the window.

When she looked out, she froze. Down in the palace gardens, tiny dots of light glowed in the green grass. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The dots of light were dandelions, and they were shining, just like in her dream. Liora pressed her nose to the glass. The garden was full of them, like a little piece of the dream meadow had been dropped into the waking world.

She hurried to pull on her slippers and a soft blue robe. Milo the fox dangled from one arm as she raced down the winding tower stairs. The castle was just waking up. Servants were lighting lamps in the shadowy halls, and somewhere in the kitchen a cook was already singing to the bread dough. Liora ran past them all, her heart beating like a drum.

In the garden, morning dew clung to the grass like tiny diamonds. The roses yawned open, shaking off bits of night. And there, right in the middle of the path, stood a cluster of glowing dandelions. Their stems were delicate and green, their puffballs shining with a gentle, milky light. Liora knelt beside them and whispered, “You are real.”

She reached out and touched one. It tickled her fingertip. At her touch, the little puffball shivered and a handful of glowing seeds drifted into the air. They floated up, up, up, swirling around her like a curtain of tiny stars. Liora laughed softly. “This is my dream,” she said. “But I am awake.”

Just then, the gardener, a kind woman named Zofia with strong hands and gentle eyes, stepped around the hedge with her watering can. When she saw the glowing dandelions, she stopped so quickly that a little water sloshed over the rim. “By the king’s crown,” Zofia breathed. “I did not plant these.” She looked at Liora with wide eyes. “Your Highness, have you ever seen flowers like this?”

Liora hesitated. She thought of the plum-colored sky and the singing trees, the silver fish and the strange reflection. “Only in my dreams,” she answered softly. Zofia frowned, then smiled, though her smile looked puzzled. “Well, dreams or not, they are in our garden now.” She knelt to look more closely at the glowing seeds drifting around them. “They do not feel dangerous,” she said. “Just… unusual.”

Liora spent the morning near the glowing dandelions. When the breeze blew, more seeds rose into the air, floating off toward the orchard and the pond and the maze of hedges. Wherever they landed, they left a little shimmer that clung to leaves and petals and stones. The kingdom’s birds fluttered nearby, curious, their bright eyes following each glowing speck.

At breakfast, Liora told her parents, King Rafael and Queen Mireille, about the dream meadow. She described the blue-leafed trees and the talking reflection in the pond. She told them about the silver fish that laughed. Then she told them about the glowing dandelions in the garden. King Rafael listened, stroking his stubbly chin. Queen Mireille’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth.

“You are sure you did not see those flowers before you went to sleep?” Queen Mireille asked. Liora shook her head. “I am sure. The garden looked normal yesterday.” The king and queen exchanged a long look, the kind grown-ups share when they are both worried and trying not to show it. Finally, King Rafael said, “Dreams are strange things, little star. But they usually stay where they belong. Perhaps this is only a trick of the light.”

That day, the kingdom felt different. As Liora walked through the castle halls, she saw small, odd things. A patch of floor that seemed a little too shiny, like smooth glass. A painting whose river moved just a bit when she glanced away. A window that showed a sky slightly darker than the real one outside. Each time she looked straight at these things, they turned normal again, as if they were shy.

That night, Liora lay in bed holding Milo close. “What if my dreams really are coming here?” she whispered into his stuffed ear. The glass bells above her chimed in the soft wind. The moon rode high and round over the tower. Liora closed her eyes and let sleep carry her away again, like a leaf floating down a gentle stream.

She found herself back in the blue forest. The glowing dandelions swayed, and the silver glass stones of the path shone under her bare feet. This time, she was not alone. A girl about her age stood by the pond, looking into the water. The girl’s hair was the same color as Liora’s. Her eyes were the same shape, the same soft blue. But she was dressed in a gown made of mist and starlight, and her bare feet did not quite touch the ground.

The girl turned and smiled. “Hello, waking Liora,” she said. Her voice sounded like it had traveled a long way. “I am Somnia.” Liora’s heart skipped. “You are my reflection,” she said. “From the pond.” Somnia nodded. “I am the part of you that lives in dreams. You are the part of me that lives in the day.”

Liora stepped closer. “Did you send the glowing dandelions to my garden?” Somnia looked pleased, as if Liora had solved a riddle. “Not send,” she said. “They walked. Dreams like to wander. Lately, the door between our worlds has become thin. Things may slip through.” She pointed at the water. On its surface, Liora saw her bedroom, her window, and the garden full of shimmering seeds.

“Is that bad?” Liora asked. She thought of Zofia’s puzzled face and her parents’ worried eyes. “It is not bad,” Somnia said slowly. “But it is not safe, either. Dreams are light and wild. They do not always understand rules. They might frighten people who do not know them. And if they wander too far, they may forget how to return.”

Liora watched a silver fish swim lazy circles in the pond, leaving little ripples behind. “Can we close the door?” she asked. Somnia shook her head. “Not close. But we can learn to guide it. Like a gate that only opens when you knock a certain way.” She stepped back and opened her hands. Suddenly the blue trees around them bent their branches, forming an arch overhead.

From the arch hung dozens of glass bells, like the ones above Liora’s bed. Somnia plucked one. It rang with a clear, sweet note that made the air vibrate. “This is the Sound of Returning,” Somnia said. “If a dream hears it, it remembers its home.” She held the little bell out to Liora. “You must carry this into your waking world.”

Liora frowned. “But how can I carry something from a dream?” Somnia smiled a quiet smile. “You already have,” she said. “The glowing dandelions are proof.” She placed the bell in Liora’s hands. It felt cool and light, like a droplet of frozen rain. “When you wake, look above your bed,” Somnia told her. “You will find it there.”

The blue forest began to fade again. The trees turned to smudges. The pond became a pale blur. Liora clutched the glass bell and called, “Somnia, wait. What if more dreams walk through before I learn what to do?” Somnia’s voice floated to her through the thinning world. “Then you must be gentle and brave. Remember, dreams are part of you. You are not alone.”

Liora woke with her hand curled around something round and cool. She blinked at the soft light slipping through the curtains. Milo lay beside her, his button eyes staring at the ceiling. Liora slowly opened her fingers. Nothing was there. For a moment, her heart sank. Then she heard a faint chime above her head.

She sat up and looked up. Among the glass bells that had always hung from her ceiling, there was one she had never seen before. It was a little larger than the others, and its surface was cloudy like a bubble. Inside it, faint shapes swirled, like tiny pieces of fog. When the morning wind brushed it, it rang with a clear, sweet sound that made Liora’s skin tingle.

“That is you,” she whispered to the bell. “You came through.” She stood on her bed, careful not to jump too hard, and reached up. The bell slipped from its cord into her hand as if it had been waiting. It was light, but she could feel a soft pulsing inside it, like a heartbeat made of mist.

Liora cradled the bell as she went about her day. She tucked it into the pocket of her dress when she ate breakfast. She held it carefully when she walked through the halls. Each time a strange, dreamlike thing appeared, she lifted the bell and gave it a gentle shake. Its sound smoothed the air, and the oddness softened.

In the music room, where a painting’s river had begun to run uphill, she rang the bell. The water in the picture sighed and settled back into its frame, flowing the right way again. In the kitchen, where a loaf of bread had grown tiny wings and was trying to fly out the window, a single chime made it yawn and become an ordinary loaf once more.

Word of the strange happenings spread through the castle. Servants whispered to one another. Knights checked their swords, though no one could tell them what they were supposed to be fighting. The royal cats chased flickers of light only they could see. The royal dogs refused to nap, their ears pricked for sounds from nowhere.

King Rafael and Queen Mireille called Liora to the throne room. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, painting colorful shapes on the floor. “Our little star,” the queen said carefully, “odd things are happening in the kingdom. Flowers glowing at noon. Shadows dancing without people. A very polite cloud that refused to leave the courtyard until someone bowed to it. Do you know anything about this?”

Liora took a deep breath. She held up the glass bell so they could see it. “My dreams are walking,” she said simply. Then she told them about Somnia, about the blue forest, about the Sound of Returning. King Rafael’s eyebrows climbed higher and higher. Queen Mireille listened without interrupting, her fingers folded tightly in her lap.

When Liora finished, the throne room was very quiet. Finally, Queen Mireille rose and came down the steps to kneel in front of Liora. “Dreams are powerful, Liora,” she said softly. “When I was a girl, I had dreams that felt like doors, too. But I never saw them walk like this.” She touched the bell gently. “If what you say is true, then the kingdom needs your help.”

Liora’s heart fluttered, half from fear and half from something like excitement. “I want to help,” she said. “Somnia said I must be gentle and brave.” King Rafael came to stand beside them. “Gentle and brave,” he repeated. “Those are good words for a princess. We will stand with you, but this door is yours. Only you can learn how to guide it.”

Over the next days, more dreams slipped into the waking world. A staircase in the east tower began to curl and sway like a ribbon. A pond in the orchard reflected a sky full of two suns. Birds perched on invisible branches in midair. Some dreams were small, like a whisper in a corner. Others were big and bright, like a parade that had lost its way.

Liora carried the glass bell everywhere. Each time she found a dream walking where it did not belong, she would sit beside it and talk to it, just as she would speak to a shy animal. “You are beautiful,” she would say to a cloud that had turned itself into a house. “But this is not your place. Come, listen.” Then she would ring the bell.

The sound did not chase the dreams away. Instead, it reminded them. The glowing flowers would sigh and shrink, drifting gently into the bell like falling feathers. The upside-down rivers would shimmer and straighten, leaving only a little sparkle on the stones. The polite cloud bowed one last time, then folded itself into a thin line of mist that slipped into the bell like smoke.

The bell grew heavier with each dream it welcomed back. Liora could feel the weight of every odd thing resting inside it. When she held it up to the light, she saw shapes swirling in its cloudy depths. A small turtle with wings. A tree that rained tiny bells instead of leaves. A door floating in the middle of nothing, waiting to be opened.

At night, Liora met Somnia in the blue forest and told her what had happened that day. Somnia listened, her misty gown trailing over the silver stones. “You are learning quickly,” she said. “But the door between our worlds is still too thin. That is why so many dreams are walking. We must find the hinge, the place where the door swings.”

“How do we find it?” Liora asked. Somnia pointed toward the heart of the forest, where the trees grew tallest and their leaves were darkest. “There,” she said. “At the very center. But it is not a place I can go alone. It is made of both of us. Waking and dreaming, side by side.”

The next morning, Liora woke with a plan. She went to the library, where shelves of books climbed to the ceiling like wooden cliffs. The royal librarian, a quiet man named Mateo whose spectacles were always slipping down his nose, helped her carry a stack of old books to a table. They looked for stories of dreams that walked, of doors between worlds, of bells that called things home.

Most of the stories were only that, stories. A fisherman who entered a painting. A girl who fell asleep for a hundred years. A king who dreamed a city and woke to find it built outside his window. But a few tales spoke of something that sounded familiar. A “Between Place,” where night and day touched fingertips. A “Hinge of Worlds,” hidden where no shadow fell.

Liora ran her finger over an old drawing in one book. It showed a circle with two halves, one dark and one light, wrapped around each other. At their center, a tiny door stood, half in sun and half in starlight. Beside the picture, in faded ink, someone had written, “Only those who belong to both sides may pass and not be torn.”

That night, Liora went to bed early. She lay in the dark tower room, the glass bell resting on her chest. Milo the fox was tucked under her arm. “We have to find the hinge,” she whispered. “We have to make the door safe.” The moon rose outside, white and watchful. The bells above her head sang softly as sleep pulled her under again.

She found Somnia waiting at the edge of the blue forest, holding a lantern made of bottled moonlight. “You came,” Somnia said. Her eyes looked brighter than usual, as if tiny stars had been lit inside them. “Are you ready?” Liora nodded. “I am afraid,” she admitted. “But I am ready.”

They walked side by side into the forest. The trees bent their branches as they passed, as if whispering secrets to each other. The path of silver stones grew narrower and narrower, until only one stone at a time fit beneath their feet. The air grew very still. Even the fireflies stopped their dancing and watched from the shadows.

At last, they came to a clearing. The ground there was split in two. On one side, soft grass glowed with daylight, dotted with red poppies and yellow buttercups. On the other, the earth was dusted with starlight, and small white flowers opened their petals to the dark sky. The line between day and night was sharp and straight, like a sword laid on the ground.

In the very center of the clearing stood a door. It had no wall, no house, nothing to lean on. It simply stood there, half in day and half in night. The daytime half was carved of warm wood, with a golden handle shaped like a sun. The nighttime half was made of smooth, dark stone, with a silver handle shaped like a crescent moon. The place where the two halves met shimmered.

“The Hinge of Worlds,” Somnia whispered. “This is where your dreams have been slipping through. The door has grown restless. It opens when it should not.” Liora stepped carefully onto the line between night and day. One bare foot sank into cool grass. The other brushed the sparkling flowers of the night side. She felt both sun and stars on her skin.

Somnia joined her, standing so close their shoulders almost touched. “We must speak to the door,” she said. Liora blinked. “Doors can listen?” Somnia smiled faintly. “Everything can listen, if you speak the right way.” Together, they reached out, each taking hold of one handle. Liora’s fingers wrapped around the golden sun. Somnia’s curled around the silver moon.

The door shivered. A low sound trembled through the clearing, like a sigh mixed with a creak. Liora felt a pull in her chest, like someone gently tugging on a string tied to her heart. Her waking memories flickered behind her eyes. Running through the castle halls. Laughing with Zofia in the garden. Reading with Mateo in the library. Eating honey cakes with her parents.

At the same time, Somnia’s dreams brushed against her mind. Flying over mountains of glass. Swimming through rivers of stars. Whirling with shadows that sang. The two worlds pressed close, separated only by the thin wood and stone of the door. Liora squeezed the golden handle tighter. “Listen,” she whispered. “You are not broken. You are only confused.”

Somnia spoke too, her voice soft and clear. “You are a door, not a road. You open when you are asked, not all the time. You have forgotten your shape. Let us remind you.” They spoke together then, waking and dreaming, their words weaving around each other like two ribbons. They talked about boundaries, about safety, about how special it was to travel between worlds only when it was time.

As they spoke, Liora slowly lifted the glass bell in her free hand. It was heavier than ever, full of wandering dreams. She held it near the place where the two halves of the door met. “These belong to you,” she told the door. “They came too far. Please remember how to hold them gently.” Somnia nodded. “And remember that you are not alone. We are here to guide you.”

Liora rang the bell.

The sound was not loud, but it was deep. It seemed to sink into the ground and rise into the sky at the same time. The trees leaned closer. The stars above the night side of the clearing brightened. The poppies on the day side turned their faces toward the bell. The door’s trembling slowed, then steadied.

From inside the bell, the gathered dreams stirred. One by one, they slipped out, not into the waking kingdom, but into the thin line where the door’s two halves met. The winged turtle glided into the shimmer and vanished, leaving a faint echo of flapping. The bell-raining tree folded its branches and stepped through. The floating door opened itself, revealing a little bit of blue forest, then closed and melted into the hinge.

As each dream returned, the door grew more solid. The shimmer where wood and stone met became a clear, bright line, neither sharp nor blurry, but just right. The pull in Liora’s chest eased. She felt something settle, like a book placed back on its shelf. Somnia’s eyes shone with quiet relief.

When the last dream had passed from the bell into the door, the glass bell itself cracked softly. Liora gasped, afraid it would shatter. But instead of breaking into pieces, it unfolded. Its glass stretched and thinned, drifting up like a soap bubble. It wrapped itself around the door’s hinge, becoming a clear, protective layer that caught the light of both sun and stars.

The door sighed, a sound full of old wood and deep stone. Liora felt it listening, truly listening, for the first time. Then, very slowly, the door closed. Not shut tight, not locked forever, but resting. Waiting. Its golden and silver handles gleamed. The line between day and night softened, becoming a gentle blend instead of a hard edge.

Somnia let go of the moon handle. Liora let go of the sun. They both stepped back. The clearing was quiet, but it was not the uneasy quiet from before. It was a calm, peaceful quiet, like the moment when a story ends and everyone sits with the feeling it leaves behind. Liora’s shoulders, which had been tense without her noticing, relaxed.

“You did it,” Somnia said. There was pride in her voice, and a little wonder. “We did it,” Liora corrected softly. She looked at the door. “Will my dreams still come?” Somnia nodded. “Yes. But now they will know the way. They will come when you sleep and return when you wake. If one forgets, the door will remind it.”

Liora thought of the glowing dandelions, the polite cloud, the flying bread. A part of her would miss seeing such strange, lovely things in the day. But she also thought of Zofia’s puzzled face and the worried whispers in the halls. She thought of how heavy the bell had felt, full of wandering dreams. “It is better this way,” she said. “Dreams belong to the night. Mostly.”

Somnia smiled, her misty gown catching bits of starlight. “Mostly,” she agreed. “Some things may still slip through. A flicker. A whisper. A hint of color where it should not be. But now your world and mine understand each other a little better. The door knows it is a door.”

They walked back through the blue forest, side by side. The trees hummed a gentle tune, like a lullaby without words. When they reached the glowing meadow of dandelions, Liora paused. “Will I see you again?” she asked. Somnia’s eyes softened. “Every time you dream,” she said. “I am you, remember. The you that walks in places that are not quite real but not quite pretend.”

Liora stepped closer and hugged her. Hugging Somnia felt like hugging a cloud that had made itself solid just for a moment. Somnia hugged her back, warm and cool at once. “Sleep well, waking Liora,” she whispered. “The worlds are safer now.” The dream began to fade, the colors thinning like watercolor in rain.

Liora woke in her tower room with tears on her cheeks and a small smile on her lips. The morning light was soft and pale. The bells above her bed chimed as the wind slipped through the window. She listened carefully, but the special bell, the one from Somnia’s forest, was gone. Only the old, familiar bells remained, tinkling their thin, bright song.

For a moment, she felt a pang of loss. Then she noticed something. On the windowsill, a single dandelion fluff rested, glowing very faintly. Not bright like before, only a soft shimmer, like a memory of light. Liora picked it up carefully. It tickled her palm. When she breathed on it, it floated up, circled once around her head, and then blinked out, as if it had never been.

Down in the garden, the glowing dandelions had faded back to ordinary ones. Their yellow heads nodded in the breeze, and their white puffballs waited for wishes. The river in the painting flowed calmly. The bread stayed bread. The polite cloud had gone on its way. The castle felt like itself again. But every now and then, if someone looked just right, they might see a tiny sparkle in a shadow, or a brief swirl of color in a quiet corner.

Liora told her parents what had happened at the Hinge of Worlds. King Rafael listened with his hand over his heart. Queen Mireille’s eyes shone with proud tears. “You have done more than any princess in our stories,” the king said. “You have guarded not only our kingdom, but the shape of our nights as well.” Liora blushed and stared at her slippers.

Life in the castle settled into a new kind of normal. Liora still dreamed of blue forests and singing trees and silver fish. She still met Somnia by the quiet pond. They talked about both their worlds, trading pieces of sky and stories. Sometimes Somnia would show Liora a new dream creature, like a cat made of rain or a staircase that climbed into the belly of a cloud.

But in the waking world, the dreams stayed mostly where they belonged. Sometimes, when Liora was very tired or very happy, a little bit of her dreams would slip into her day. A shadow might wave at her from the corner of a room. A flower might glow for a single heartbeat. A puddle might show her Somnia’s smiling face instead of her own. Then the moment would pass, like a blink.

Liora grew used to walking between these gentle edges. She learned that her dreams were not something completely separate from her, but a part of her that liked to dance in the dark. She learned that being brave did not mean never being afraid, but taking a step even when your heart thumped loudly in your chest. She learned that doors, like people, sometimes forgot their purpose and needed to be spoken to kindly.

Some nights, as she fell asleep, she would whisper to the darkness, “Stay where you are, little dreams. I will see you soon.” She knew now that they would listen, that the door at the Hinge of Worlds would open only the right amount, only at the right times. And on the rare mornings when she woke and found a tiny, odd thing in her room, like a feather made of light or a marble that held a whole storm inside, she would smile.

She would pick up the stray dream and hold it gently in her hands. “You took a little wrong turn,” she would say. “That is all right. I remember the way.” Then she would close her eyes and hum a bit of the bell’s deep, soft sound. The dream would sigh and grow lighter, until it slipped from her fingers and melted into the air, finding its path back through the resting door.

In time, the story of the princess whose dreams walked after she woke spread through the kingdom. Children whispered it to each other under blankets. Grown-ups told it by the fire on long nights. Some added dragons and giants where there had been none. Some forgot Somnia’s name and called her simply The Dream. But the heart of the story remained.

They said that because of Princess Liora, people’s dreams became kinder. Nightmares still came sometimes, because even shadows need to stretch. But they did not wander as far as before. They stayed close to their own world, where Somnia and Liora could watch them, talk to them, and help them remember that they were only visitors in the mind, not rulers of it.

On a certain quiet evening, when the sky was the color of soft peaches and the first star blinked awake, Liora sat on her windowsill with Milo in her lap. The kingdom below her glowed with lamplight. She could hear faint laughter from the village, the soft clink of dishes being washed, the faraway song of someone heading home.

She closed her eyes and thought of the blue forest, the glowing dandelions, the door standing alone between day and night. She thought of Somnia’s hand in hers on the silver stones. Her heart felt full and peaceful. “Good night, dreams,” she whispered. “I will see you soon. Walk gently.” A breeze came through the window and brushed her cheek like a kiss.

Liora slid into bed and pulled her patchwork quilt up to her chin. The glass bells above her head chimed, their song weaving with the quiet sounds of the castle. Her eyes grew heavy. As she drifted toward sleep, she felt a familiar tug, like someone taking her hand. Somewhere, in a clearing where day and night touched, a door rested, strong and sure, waiting for its careful knock.

And so the princess who had once watched her dreams wander through her garden now walked with them in both worlds. Her days were filled with sunshine and books and gardens and friends. Her nights were full of stars and singing trees and a girl in a gown of mist. Between them, in the soft place where waking and dreaming met, Liora’s heart stood like a lantern, bright and steady.

Outside her tower, the moon climbed higher, and the hills wore their cloak of spilled-milk light. The kingdom slept, wrapped in its own small and secret dreams. And in the quiet, where no one could quite say where night ended and morning began, the princess slept too, safe and warm, while her dreams, now wiser and gentler, waited patiently for her to join them again.