In the little hill town of Bellagrin, every house had a roof the color of toasted bread, every window had a flower box, and every morning the baker rang a copper bell exactly three times.

But the most curious thing in Bellagrin was not the baker’s bell.

It was the staircase.

The staircase climbed from the town square all the way to the Moonlit Garden on the hilltop. It had been there longer than anyone could remember. Its steps were made of pale gray stone, smooth in the middle from the feet of grandmothers, children, cats, delivery carts, musicians, and one very determined goat named Bibi.

Some days, people counted one hundred and forty steps.

On other days, they counted only twenty-seven.

And sometimes, if the sky was especially blue and somebody stopped to look at a ladybug crawling across a leaf, the staircase could stretch so long that its top disappeared into a little silver cloud.

The staircase had one peculiar rule.

Whenever someone rushed, it became shorter.

Whenever someone stopped to notice something beautiful, it became longer.

Most grown-ups in Bellagrin knew this, but they were often too busy to remember it.

“Short stairs are useful,” said the mayor, who always wore shiny shoes. “Very efficient.”

“Splendid for carrying bread,” said the baker.

“Excellent for delivering letters,” said the postwoman, who had a red scarf that flew behind her like a flag.

And so, each morning, people hurried up and down the staircase, thinking about lists, errands, soups, socks, meetings, buttons, and whether they had remembered to feed Bibi the goat.

The staircase became shorter and shorter.

At the very bottom of the staircase lived a child named Sora with her grandfather, Daichi, in a round house with a blue door. Sora had soft black curls and a habit of collecting small beautiful things in her pockets: a feather striped like a zebra, a pebble shaped like a sleeping mouse, a yellow button with only one hole.

Her grandfather did not mind.

“Your pockets are full of the world,” he would say.

One afternoon, just as the sun was turning the windows gold, Daichi came home carrying a letter with a green wax seal.

“Sora,” he said, looking worried.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A letter from Auntie Mina. She is in the Moonlit Garden. Tonight is the Night of Floating Lanterns, and she has made a special lantern for you. But she says the garden gate has begun to close early.”

Sora gasped. The Night of Floating Lanterns happened only once a year. Everyone made lanterns from paper and ribbon and placed a tiny candle inside. Then, when the moon rose, they set them on the garden pond. The pond would fill with glowing stars that bobbed gently on the water.

“I have to go!” said Sora.

Daichi looked at the staircase. It was already unusually short. From the town square to the top, there seemed to be only twelve steps.

“That should be easy,” said Sora, grabbing her little yellow coat.

But Daichi placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Remember the staircase’s rule.”

“I know,” said Sora. “If I rush, it gets shorter.”

“And is shorter always better?”

Sora thought about this.

“Well, today it is. Auntie Mina said the gate is closing early.”

Daichi smiled, but it was a thoughtful smile.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Take this, just in case.”

He gave her a small brass pocket watch. It had no numbers on its face. Instead, it had pictures around the edge: a flower, a cloud, a shell, a bird, a star, a teacup, and a tiny moon.

“It belonged to your grandmother,” Daichi said. “It does not tell time. It tells something else.”

“What?”

“You will know when you need to.”

Sora tucked the watch safely into her pocket and ran to the staircase.

At the bottom, she met the postwoman, who was racing down with a bundle of letters.

“Hello, Sora!” cried the postwoman. “Don’t dawdle. The stairs are quick today!”

Then she dashed down three steps.

Poof!

The staircase shrank.

The top was suddenly closer.

Sora hurried after her.

Tap tap tap!

With every fast step, another stair vanished. Soon there were only eight steps left. Then seven. Then six.

“This is working!” Sora said, racing faster.

But on the fourth step, she heard a tiny squeak.

She stopped.

Beside the staircase was a patch of grass where a snail with a blue-speckled shell had become tangled in a thread of silver ribbon. The ribbon fluttered in the breeze, and the snail’s feelers wobbled helplessly.

“Oh dear,” said Sora.

She knelt down and carefully untied the ribbon.

The snail blinked its small, shiny eyes.

Then it began to glide away, leaving a trail that sparkled in the evening light.

Sora watched it for just a moment.

The sparkly trail curled around a dandelion stem, and there, hidden under the leaves, was the tiniest purple flower Sora had ever seen. It had five velvet petals, each with a dot of gold at the center.

“Oh,” she whispered. “You are lovely.”

The staircase gave a long, low rumble.

From beneath Sora’s feet, a new step slid out.

Then another.

And another.

The top of the hill rose farther away.

“No, no, no!” Sora cried. “I can’t have more steps!”

She hurried onward.

Tap tap tap!

The steps shrank again. Twelve became nine. Nine became five.

At the next landing stood Monsieur Armand, the old violin maker. He was leaning over the railing, frowning at the sky.

“Are you all right?” Sora asked, though she knew she ought to keep going.

“My best kite has escaped,” he said sadly.

High above them, a kite shaped like a bright orange fish was caught in the branches of a chestnut tree. Its paper fins trembled in the wind.

“I made it for my grandson,” Monsieur Armand said. “He is coming tomorrow.”

Sora looked at the garden gate, far up the hill.

Then she looked at the orange kite.

“I can help,” she said.

She climbed onto the stone railing, reached for a low branch, and tugged gently. The branch bounced. The kite slipped free and floated down, down, down, right into her arms.

Monsieur Armand’s face lit up.

“Magnifique!” he said. “Thank you, little Sora.”

The kite’s orange paper caught the sunlight. It glowed like a fish swimming through a warm golden sea.

Sora could not help smiling.

And the staircase rumbled again.

This time it stretched so much that a whole new curve appeared around the hill. There were steps she had never seen before, with moss between them and tiny carvings along the sides. One carving showed a fox wearing boots. Another showed a moon eating a pear. Another showed three ducks playing trumpets.

“Oh, bother,” Sora said.

She started running.

But the more she hurried, the shorter the steps became, until they were so short she had to take silly little hops.

Hop hop hop!

She passed the baker, who was carrying a tray of cinnamon buns.

“Fast day!” he puffed.

Hop hop hop!

She passed Bibi the goat, who was wearing a wreath of parsley.

“Baaaa!” said Bibi, which seemed to mean, “Do not forget the parsley.”

Hop hop hop!

Sora reached a place where the stairs narrowed between two high hedges. She could finally see the Moonlit Garden gate. It was made of black iron curled into the shapes of vines and stars.

But the gate was moving.

Slowly, slowly, it was closing.

Sora rushed harder than ever.

The staircase shrank to three steps.

Then two.

Then one.

She leaped onto the last step just as the gate clicked nearly shut.

“Auntie Mina!” she called.

No answer.

Beyond the gate, the garden was dusky and quiet. The pond reflected the first round slice of moon. Dozens of lanterns waited on the grass, unlit.

Sora pushed at the gate.

It would not open.

She pushed again.

Nothing.

She felt a hot, prickly feeling behind her eyes.

“I hurried,” she whispered. “I hurried so much, and now I’m too late.”

Then she remembered the brass pocket watch.

She took it out.

The little hand was pointing at the picture of a flower.

Sora looked around.

At first, she saw only the gate, the path, the hedge, and the staircase below.

Then she noticed a white flower growing through the iron bars. It was small and bent toward the moonlight. One of its petals had a drop of evening dew resting on it, round and clear as a tiny glass marble.

Sora took a slow breath.

The dew drop reflected the moon.

Then, just beside it, she noticed a moth with wings patterned like old lace. It sat on the gate, perfectly still.

Far below, the town bells began to ring.

One.

Two.

Three.

Sora listened.

The sound floated up the hill, mixed with the whisper of leaves and the soft munching of Bibi, who had somehow climbed halfway up behind her.

The staircase began to rumble.

Sora turned.

New steps were appearing, not behind her this time, but beside her. They curled gently around the hedge, through a hidden path of bluebells, beneath an arch of silver birch trees.

The staircase was becoming longer.

Much longer.

But it was also becoming kinder.

Each new step was broad and warm beneath Sora’s shoes. Little lanterns appeared along the edges, glowing one by one. The path did not lead away from the garden gate.

It led around it.

Sora followed the new steps slowly.

She noticed the bluebells nodding as if they were sleepy. She noticed a spiderweb holding seven tiny drops of dew. She noticed the smell of mint crushed beneath Bibi’s hooves. She noticed the moon climbing higher, pale and bright.

At the end of the winding path was a small wooden door in the garden wall.

It stood open.

And on the other side, Auntie Mina was waiting with a lantern in her hands.

“Sora!” she cried. “I knew the staircase would bring you.”

“I thought I was late,” Sora said, running into her auntie’s arms.

“You arrived when you were ready,” said Auntie Mina.

The special lantern was shaped like a small house with blue paper doors and curly black paper windows. On its roof sat a tiny paper snail with a blue-speckled shell.

“It looks like our house,” Sora said.

“And you,” said Auntie Mina, “because you have a way of finding homes for small, lost things.”

Together, they lit the lantern’s candle.

Sora carried it to the pond. All around her, the people of Bellagrin set their lanterns afloat. There were lanterns shaped like pears, stars, birds, boats, boots, and one that looked exactly like Bibi the goat.

The water glimmered with gentle light.

Sora placed her little house lantern on the pond. It rocked once, then floated among the others.

For a long time, she watched the lights drift beneath the moon.

No one rushed.

And far down the hill, the staircase stretched and stretched, step after beautiful step, until it became long enough to hold every person who wanted to climb slowly home.