Far out in the sky, past the moon and past the planets, there lived a small star named Twill.
Twill was not the brightest star. She was not the biggest. She sat quietly at the edge of a faraway group of stars, and she twinkled, and she watched.
What she watched, most of all, were the windows.
Down below, on a little blue planet, people had windows. They were warm and yellow and square, and through them Twill saw all sorts of things. She saw families eating supper. She saw a man playing a cello. She saw a dog asleep in front of a fire.
"I wish I had a window," said Twill.
"Stars do not have windows," said a big old star beside her. "We are the light that shines in them."
"I know," said Twill. "But I would like to look out, just once, instead of in."
The old star did not know what to say to that. So he just glowed, and Twill went on twinkling and wishing.
On the little blue planet, in a small house on a quiet street, a child named Wren lay awake. She could not sleep. She pulled her curtain open and looked up at the sky.
"There are so many stars," she whispered. "Which one is looking at me?"
Wren picked one. It was a small one, a little off to the side. She decided it was hers.
"Hello, star," she said. "Can you see me?"
Twill had never been so surprised in all her long, bright life. Somebody was looking at her! Somebody was talking to her!
Twill twinkled as hard as she could. Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle.
Wren smiled. "I think she heard me."
And for the first time, Twill understood. A window is not a hole in a wall. A window is where two people look at each other, one from outside, and one from in.
"I have a window," Twill said softly. "It is hers."
Wren yawned. She kept her curtain open, just a little.
"Goodnight, my star," she said.
"Goodnight," twinkled Twill.
And all night long, one small star looked down, and one small girl looked up, and neither of them was lonely at all.