Mila could tell the room was not quite ready for sleep. The blanket was warm, but her thoughts were walking in small quick circles. Then, above the window, a little silver boat appeared as if it had always known the way to her room.
The boat did not rush. It floated close enough for Mila to see the pale stitched stars along its side. A lantern hung from its bow, and each time the lantern swayed, one of Mila's thoughts slowed down.
Mila stepped in with a careful breath. The cloud boat drifted over rooftops, then over gardens, then over the quiet places where the city forgot to hurry. A soft voice from the lantern said, "We do not need to carry every thought at once. We can set one down, then another."
So Mila named them gently. The noisy one about tomorrow. The restless one about whether she had done enough. The small one that simply wanted another story. Each thought became a folded paper star and slipped into a velvet pocket beside the lantern.
By the time the boat turned home, Mila's chest felt wide and warm. She carried back only one star, the one that said she was safe, loved, and allowed to rest.
The silver boat waited outside her window until her eyes closed, rocking once in the soft night air like a promise to return if the room ever needed slowing again.