Every night before bed, Lila folded a small paper boat and set it on her windowsill. "Sail somewhere wonderful," she would whisper, and then she would climb under her blanket. She never knew where the boats went. But the Moon did.
One clear night, the Moon laid a long silver path across the sky, all the way down to Lila's window. And the little paper boat lifted gently from the sill and floated out onto the moonbeam, rocking like a cradle.
The boat carried Lila — for she had fallen fast asleep inside it without quite noticing — up the shining road of light. Below her, the rooftops grew small. The clouds drifted past like soft white sheep. Everything was hushed and slow and kind. The boat did not wobble or tip; it simply glided, smooth and sure, as if it had sailed this road a thousand times before.
"Where are we going?" Lila asked sleepily. "To the harbor of dreams," said the Moon, in a voice like a faraway bell. "Every sleepy child sails there. You only have to let the quiet carry you."
At the top of the moonbeam lay a calm and glowing harbor, where hundreds of little paper boats bobbed side by side. In each one slept a dreaming child, smiling at something only they could see. The water was warm. The air smelled of clean blankets and faraway gardens. Now and then a boat would gently sail away as its child woke, and a new one would arrive, rocking softly into place.
Lila's boat slid into a gentle spot between the others. The Moon tucked a thin blanket of light around her. "Rest now," he murmured. "Your dream is already beginning."
As Lila's boat rested in the harbor, a small fish with a soft glowing light on its head swam up beside her. It circled the boat once, twice, leaving a trail of tiny shining bubbles. "I light the way for dreaming children," the lantern fish said, "so no one drifts too far." Lila reached down and touched the warm water, and the fish glowed a little brighter, just for her. All around the harbor, dozens of lantern fish drifted between the boats like floating stars, keeping every sleeper safe and softly lit until morning.
And it was. Lila dreamed of warm seas and singing gulls and islands made of pillows. She sailed all night through the softest of waters, safe in her small paper boat.
When morning came, the tide of light carried every boat gently home. Lila woke in her own warm bed, the sun on her cheek. On her windowsill sat her little paper boat, a single drop of dew shining on its bow — the only sign of how far it had traveled in the quiet of the night.