On the evening before something new, a moon map appeared in the pocket of a cardigan. It was small enough to fit beside a hand and soft enough to unfold without a sound.
The map did not show roads. It showed feelings. First the wobble. Then the pause. Then the looking around. Then the first kind step. At each part there was a tiny moon marker, silver and steady.
The child traced the map with a finger. They did not need to leap to the end. They only needed to find the first moon. In the story, each moon lit when a small action was taken: a breath, a hello, a glance up, a question.
By the last page the map folded itself smaller, as if to say it could always come along. New places were still new, but they were no longer shapeless. They had a path now, and the path was allowed to be gentle.