Luma and the Star Tree

In the heart of the Whispering Grove, where even during the day the moonflowers were in bloom and fireflies danced year-round, there stood a tree unlike any other. Large and ancient, its trunk shone like silver polish, and its leaves shimmered with the pale light of stars. This was the Star Tree, and it was rumored to produce but one fruit of starlight every century. When it did, the fruit would go up to heaven and become a new star that would light the heavens.

Ever since anyone could remember, the Star Tree blossomed annually. And when it did, the forest caught its breath, because it meant that the world still had hope and magic.

This year, though, something was wrong.

The 100th year came. All the creatures of the grove—foxes, owls, squirrels, and the rest—came to witness the bloom. But the Star Tree did not move. Its branches sagged. Its silver bark dulled. No bud, no fruit. Just quiet.

Among the onlookers was a small winged creature named Luma. She was a Star Keeper—at least, so the myths went. Star Keepers were uncommon, born once every age, with light in their hearts and the power to guide the tree. But Luma was small, barely bigger than a flower petal, and unsure where she belonged. She often tripped over her own wings and got distracted by rainbows in puddles.

When the old owl looked at her and said, "It must be you," Luma blinked. "Me?"

"You're the last Star Keeper," he whispered. "The tree needs your light."

Luma gazed up at the high branches. "But… I don't know how."

"Then find the way," breathed the tree itself, in a voice as ancient as time.

So Luma began.

She flew over the Clouded Peaks, where laughing frost fairies and ice hung in sparkling chandeliers of crystal. She gave a spark of her brightness to unfreeze a lost hatchling's nest. She flew over the Hollow Winds, where long, cold shadows lay. She shared of her light with a blind mole who had not seen the sun in years.

Wherever she went, she gave something—the glint of her wings, the gleam from her chest, a lullaby of light that soothed the lonely and healed the broken. With each offering, Luma was less radiant.

When she returned to the grove, she was hardly aglow. Her wings fought to beat. The Star Tree was as dead as ever.

"I did my best," she whispered, kneeling before it. "I gave it everything I had."

And still… nothing.

Luma bent her head. One tear fell from her cheek and onto the roots of the tree.

Then, in a miracle:

The tree awakened.

Its bark glowed once more. Its leaves burned brighter than ever before. Light poured up its trunk like a tide rising, and from the topmost branch, one bud burst open—round and golden, throb with heat.

The forest held its breath again.

The bud opened, and out of it the Star Fruit rose. Gently, slowly, it rose into the air, leaving silver and gold behind. Higher and higher it rose, until it burst into a star so brilliant that even the daylight sky sparkled with it.

Luma, too weak to stand, stared wide-eyed.

The tree leaned down, one shining tendril enfolding her gently.

"Your light, you shared with others," it said to her. "And in doing so, you reminded me of mine."

Trills of warmth poured over Luma from the new star in the sky, remaking her wings, her radiance, her spirit. But now her light was not the same—thicker, fuller, enriched by every bit of kindness she had shared.

The forest creatures cheered. The Star Tree sang a lullaby the wind alone could hear.

And Luma, reborn in light and love, took over the job of the true Star Keeper.

Not because she was born with gifts.

But because she chose to give it away.