Lubomira lived in the narrow blue townhouse at the end of Lantern Lane, where every floorboard had a bedtime sound.

She was a quiet child with two loose braids, soft blue pajamas, and a moon-shaped lamp she carried whenever the dark felt too large.

Most nights she listened from her doorway as the old staircase stretched itself tall and gentle, helping tiny silver dreams climb to the sleeping rooms.

The staircase had been her secret friend for as long as she could remember, but that morning, just before the birds began, its warm wooden steps shook at the first thin line of gold beneath the window.