The sandman is running late

Every night, the sandman pedaled his cloud-bike over the village and dropped a pinch of golden sand onto every window, to help the children fall asleep. That night, midnight struck, and not a single grain of golden sand had yet fallen on Lime Tree Street.

Zoe, wide awake in bed, looked out the window and saw, far off, a cloud-bike wheel completely flat, stuck between two stars. "The sandman got a flat tire," she realized. She slipped on her slippers and stepped out onto her doorstep.

Out in the street, other village children had come out too, all unable to sleep without their usual pinch of sand. "What if we helped ourselves tonight?" Zoe suggested. She remembered a trick her grandmother had taught her: count the stars, one breath per star, until your eyes grow heavy.

The children sat in a circle on the sidewalk, counting the stars together in soft voices, one slow breath at every number. One by one, they started yawning, then dozing off, until their parents carried each of them, one after another, to bed.

The next day, the sandman came back to apologize, his wheel finally fixed. Zoe told him how they had managed without him. He smiled, relieved: "So you don't really need my sand anymore," he said — but he kept sprinkling it every night all the same, just for the joy of doing it.