The Midnight Window Painter

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Rosalind pressed her nose against her bedroom window, watching the city lights twinkle below. She loved counting the patterns they made—three yellow streetlights, then two white ones, repeating all down Maple Street. But tonight, something was different. A glowing shape swooped past her window, leaving a trail of shimmering dust. "That's not a regular bird," she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. The shape circled back, and Rosalind gasped. It was an owl, but its feathers sparkled like captured starlight. The owl hovered outside her window, tilting its head as if asking a question.

The owl touched its wing tip to Rosalind's window, and something incredible happened. Glowing lines appeared on the glass, swirling and dancing until they formed a picture—a clock tower with its hands pointing to midnight. "Are you trying to tell me something?" Rosalind asked, her eyes wide with wonder. The owl hooted softly and added more lines. Now there was a moon above the tower, perfectly round and bright. But before Rosalind could study it more closely, the magical paint began to fade. The owl looked worried, its golden eyes blinking rapidly. "Wait! Don't go!" But the owl had already disappeared into the night, leaving only a few glowing feathers drifting down.