Beneath a blanket of stars, the comfort of a song whispers through open doors.

May closes her eyes, golden lashes tickle the curve of her cheekbones and watches the fireflies dance behind the lids. Hundreds, thousands even, swarm from their hive, an evergreen forest backing onto her garden. Their orchestra of light begins precisely one hour after sunset, not a moment later. She holds an annual ticket and the best seat in the house.

            May dreams often of the golden lights and the subtle perfume of soil between her toes, the soft caress of grass against her bare calves. She wears the same dress, always. White gossamer draped over her curves and slopes, as ruby poppies entwine across the hem.

            The stars dance with her then. Shining glimpses of souls lost and forgotten, they draw her in, draw her up into the navy silk of the night and into the moonlight until dawn touches her pillow.

            Turquoise eyes alight on the forest, as the final curlicue of fireflies end their display and disappear for the night. Their reflection takes a moment longer to fade, captured by her gaze.

Crickets tease their violins, interweaving with the sighs and coos of the music from the depths of May’s bedroom. They tease her with their skills, beckoning owls, deer and the yips of fox to illustrate how easily nature enthrals her. Envy of their freedom drapes across her shoulders, a heavy shadow lingering too long.

            May slips a breath through parted lips and stares at her dress. The white is as frail as gossamer, but far less grand and the poppies embroidered along the hem do not beguile a secondary look like her dream-dress.

            But still, she waits. Soon, she hopes, as the moon drifts into sight in a gown of the purest luna-light. Soon she’ll be beckoned to join the stars and leave behind the shadows crawling across her skin.