The Lullaby of One Hundred Small Steps

In the Sicilian garden before bedtime, one hundred tiny lights appeared.

They were not electric lights. They were little sparks on leaves, stones, flowerpots, the orange tree, the watering can, the wooden gate, the path, and the old bench.

Lucia wanted to count them all.

“One, two, three, four...”

But at twelve she lost her place. At twenty she began again. At thirty she felt tired and upset.

“I cannot do one hundred.”

The garden whispered, “You do not have to do them all at once.”

The first light went out.

“Good night, first step,” said her mother.

Lucia listened.

The second light went out near the basil.

“Good night, basil step.”

Then one on the stone, one on the lemon leaf, one on the little gate.

Each light disappeared only after Lucia named it gently. Not quickly. Not perfectly. Just with presence.

Soon counting became a lullaby.

Good night, stone. Good night, mint. Good night, wall. Good night, sleepy chair. Good night, little path.

Lucia did not reach one hundred with numbers. She reached it with calm. Somewhere near the seventieth light, her eyes grew heavy. Near the eightieth, her head rested on her mother’s shoulder. The last lights went out almost by themselves, as if the garden knew she was ready.

In bed, Lucia whispered, “Did we finish?”

Her mother kissed her forehead. “The garden finished for you.”

Outside, all the tiny lights were off. The real stars stayed above, quiet and far.

Lucia understood without words: sleep is not a jump into darkness. It is a path of small, safe steps, and someone can walk beside you until your dreams know the way.