Every October evening, we race the Shadows. We dash along cold, wet alleyways as the sun dips down over the village, our glowing dream-jars swinging at our hips. As the smallest Reverie-fairy, I am entrusted with children’s dreams. Tonight, if I don’t fail, I’ll finally get my wings.

A soft cry. I climb the trellis and drop into a nursery. A newborn slowly sucks a bottle in her sleeping mother’s arms, her eyes closing. Joy floods my heart as I pluck a dream from my jar to give her — a dream of safety, of love.

A Shadow emerges from behind the rocking chair, a bag of nightmares slung over his shoulder.

“Wait!” I cry. “Her first dream should be good. So she knows that the world is full of hope.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, Reverie.” He reaches into his bag. “I got here first.”

“NO!” Heart pounding, I throw my dream. It merges with his black, stormy one, bursting over the baby like silver rain. She sneezes. Her eyes close.

The Shadow stares at me, surprised. “You’ll never get your wings now. You broke a good dream.”

My heart aches. “But now she’ll know hope first, even in dark.”