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Dobik lived on a shelf. Not a boring shelf — a very good one, with a ceramic mug, three leaning books, a pinecone, and a bunch of dried lavender that smelled of summer-before-last. But Dobik was the only soft thing on it. He sat with his legs dangling over the edge and watched the room the way you watch a window in the rain — hoping for something, not sure what.
The boy who owned the room had gone away for a week. The room was very quiet. Dobik liked quiet, mostly. But this quiet had a particular emptiness to it, like a sentence that stops before the best word. “Seven days,” Dobik said to the pinecone. The pinecone did not reply. It never did. But he appreciated its company anyway.
On the second night, something floated in through the curtain gap. It was the size of a grape. It glimmered silver-lavender, like moonlight had been folded into a crumple. It bumped softly into the mug, then the wall, then drifted sideways and bumped into Dobik's hat. His hat tilted. The little light sneezed — a high, tinkling sound like a pin dropped on a piano key.
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