Example stories · Space · Ages 8 to 10

Wren and the Comet's Lullaby

A read-aloud bedtime story, about 5 minutes.

Every night, after her mother tucked her in and the porch light clicked off, Wren waited three quiet minutes, then slipped out of bed and climbed into the little silver rocket ship parked beside her window. It was not a very big rocket. It was barely bigger than a bathtub, with soft cushioned seats and a window shaped like a porthole, but it was hers, and it knew the way to the stars better than anyone.

Tonight, as the rocket lifted off with its familiar gentle whoosh, Wren noticed something strange right away. Comet Sil, the friendly comet who usually swept past her window on Tuesdays with a long silver tail like a ribbon caught in the wind, was nowhere near her usual path. Instead, she was tumbling in slow, uneven circles near a cluster of quiet blue stars, her tail flickering weakly, like a candle in a draft.

Wren steered closer. "Comet Sil? Are you all right?"

The comet turned, and her light dimmed even further with worry. "Oh, Wren. I am dreadfully lost. I cannot remember my way around the sun. Every year I loop past Jupiter, past the little asteroid belt, past the twin stars, and back out again, right on schedule. But tonight I looked up and everything looked unfamiliar, and now I cannot find the path at all."

"That does sound scary," Wren said gently, easing her rocket alongside the comet's tumbling glow. "But you have looped around the sun for a thousand years, haven't you? You must remember the way somewhere in there."

"I used to," said Comet Sil, "but somewhere between the last comet shower and tonight, I simply forgot. I do not know why. Perhaps I am too old. Perhaps I was never any good at directions to begin with."

Wren thought about this while her rocket drifted in a slow, easy circle, matching the comet's uneasy tumbling. She thought about the times she herself had forgotten the way home from the library, and how her mother always said the same thing: when you cannot remember where you are going, remember what you already know.

"What do you know?" Wren asked. "Not about the whole path. Just the first little bit."

Comet Sil was quiet for a moment. "I know I always pass the three sisters first," she said slowly. "Three stars in a row, close together, who hum the same three notes over and over."

"That's something," Wren said. "What comes after the sisters?"

"After the sisters, I turn toward the old lantern star, the very bright orange one, and I follow its light until I hear the twins singing." Comet Sil's tail flickered, just slightly brighter now. "The twins always sing a rising little tune, up and up and up, like a question."

"And after the twins?"

"After the twins, I dip low, past the sleeping giant planet with all its rings, and its rings hum the lowest, slowest note of anyone in the whole sky. And once I hear that low hum, I know the sun is close, and I only have to follow the warmth."

Wren smiled. "Comet Sil, you already know the whole way. You just forgot that you knew it."

The comet's light flickered with something that might have been surprise. "I suppose I did just say the whole path, didn't I?"

"You did. It's like a song," Wren said. "The three sisters, then the lantern star, then the twins, then the sleeping giant, then the warmth. Try singing it instead of thinking it. Songs are easier to remember than directions."

So Comet Sil tried. Softly at first, her voice like static and starlight, she hummed the pattern Wren had helped her find, three low notes for the sisters, a bright held note for the lantern star, a rising little run for the twins, a long slow hum for the sleeping giant, and then, trailing off into a warm and easy silence, the promise of the sun.

As she sang it, her tumbling smoothed into a long, graceful arc. Her tail brightened and stretched out behind her, steady and sure, like a ribbon finally caught by the right wind. "I remember," she whispered. "Oh, Wren, I remember."

"You were never really lost," Wren said. "You just needed to hear it out loud."

Comet Sil drifted alongside the little rocket for one more lap, humming her small five part song, softer now, more like a lullaby than a chant. "Thank you for listening," she said. "Will you remember the tune too, in case I ever need reminding again?"

"I promise," Wren said, and she hummed it back, just to prove she had it, three notes, one bright note, a little rising run, one long low hum, and quiet.

Comet Sil swept off at last toward the three sisters, her tail trailing bright and certain behind her, already humming her way home around the sun. Wren watched until the glow shrank to a friendly, familiar sparkle, then eased her rocket back around toward her own small window.

The whoosh of landing was even softer than the whoosh of takeoff. Wren climbed out of her rocket, tucked it back beside the window where it always waited, and slid under her covers, humming Comet Sil's little song under her breath, three low notes and a bright one and a rising run and a long slow hum, until the tune grew softer, and softer, and softer still, and Wren drifted off to sleep knowing that even when the way forward seems lost, it is usually humming quietly nearby, waiting to be remembered.