Turn their drawing into a bedtime book that winds down instead of winding up.

Earnest. On the table by Wren's bed, a small lamp glows beside a glass of water and a rumpled book. Wren is already under her blanket, watching the bright circle on her wall. Downstairs, the house is still awake, but only just.

The lamp grows gentler, almost too slowly to catch, and Wren notices because the shadows near her slippers get wider. She reaches one hand from the blanket and wiggles her fingers in the light. Their dark shapes stretch long across the quilt.

Wren turns onto her side and faces the table. The lamp shines low enough now that the picture frame beside it shows only a pale edge, not the whole picture. The room seems still, and Wren breathes in slowly under her blanket.

Now the house feels fully quiet. No voices rise from below, and no feet cross the hall. Wren watches the tiny pull chain hanging from the lamp, almost still, catching one last thread of gold.

On the porch, a moth spins. By the warm light, he loops wide.

Cool air comes. Circles shrink. He dips lower by the mat.

He makes one last small loop. Then he lands on the frame. Tiny feet hold. Wings fold.

Click. The porch light goes out. Dark porch. Still moth. Night.

Dark water. Little red boat comes home. Junie putts toward the dock, slowly.

Bump. Junie taps the dock once. She backs up a tiny bit. She comes in more slowly now.

The rope swings over the post. Junie pulls the rope snug. Junie turns it off. Quiet.

Flat water holds the red tugboat. Still water. Junie stays home.

On the garden path, a snail starts crossing. He plans to finish before dark.

Then he stops beside the flowerpot. He stares at one crack for a very long time. A tiny ant zips past him twice.

A breeze tickles him. In go the eye stalks, quickly, like little buttons. He stays tucked in while the shadows grow long.

Under the dim sky, the snail rests halfway across. He has gone far enough.