When the garden turned golden, the birds tucked their songs away. Lila the snail watched the round window of her little house glow beneath a white bellflower. Inside, her leaf blanket was waiting.

“I would like a song for bedtime,” she thought. “But I cannot sing like a bird.” She straightened her mustard scarf and slipped out to listen.

Near the path, a breeze brushed the leaves: shhh, shhh. Lila lifted her eyestalks. The sound was light, like a soft ribbon being pulled through the garden.

She tried a very small “shhh” of her own. It was not quite the same, but it made her smile. When the breeze paused, she waited. Soon the leaves began again.

Bram the hedgehog sat beneath a fern. A few drops from the afternoon rain still rested on its green fronds. One fell onto a broad leaf: tap. Then another: tap.

“Are you counting them?” Lila asked. “Not tonight,” said Bram. “I am listening to each one.” Lila settled beside him. Between the drops there was plenty of room to be quiet.

Lila tried to remember the breeze and every drop at once. Her little tune became tangled. “I think I have lost the song,” she said.

Bram shook his head gently. “You can begin with one sound. It does not have to be the whole garden.” Lila whispered “shhh,” waited, then added one soft “tap.” That was enough for a beginning.

At the pond, the first star shone between two lily pads. Mo the frog was resting on a smooth stone. Lila stopped on the dry moss beside him.

“I found two little sounds,” she told him. “Would you like one more?” Mo asked. He made a low, gentle croak. Lila listened without trying to copy it immediately. A ring of ripples widened on the water.

Mo did not croak again straight away. He watched the ripples reach the bank. Lila watched them too. Above the pond, another star appeared.

“Is this still part of the song?” she asked. “The pause?” “Of course,” said Mo. “A song can leave room for listening.” Lila liked that idea. She did not have to fill every quiet moment with a sound.

On the way home, Lila let the tune follow her slowly. A whisper for the leaves. A tap for the drop. A low note for Mo. Between them, she left little spaces.

She had not taken anything away from the garden. The leaves still belonged to the breeze, and the pond still belonged to its ripples. She had simply found her own way to say goodnight.

Lila settled beneath her leaf blanket, with her green shell snug beside the pillow. Through the open window came one last rustle. She answered it with a tiny “shhh.”

Her song did not need to be loud. It did not need another note. The garden was resting, and Lila could rest too. Her eyestalks lowered gently. Outside, the stars kept their quiet places.