Ladybug

A noise woke me up.

Unlike the usual whine, this was a buzzing.

I got up and bumped into my unfinished book. I reached for the window.

The summer air was fresh. In the moonlight an insect flew around. ‘A ladybug at night?’ I thought. It slipped under my hand. It felt watery when I drowned into one of its spots, as black and round as inky lakes.

I was swimming in dark waters; its drops were little mirrors showing a young lady in a red cloak with black buttons. She was bringing chocolates to dozens of children. They were playing happily. Only one child did not play; he was hiding behind an apple tree, where I left him in my unfinished book.

“Why are you sad, my child?” The young lady asked.

“My shoes are broken, I can’t run and play,” the child said. He was about to weep, and I recognized the whine. “My mom is poor; she can’t buy new shoes for me,” he continued.

The young lady wrapped the child under her red cloak until the black buttons filled with his tears. The wind shook the leaves and from above the apple tree something fell down landing on the grass.

Red and black as he had always wished, his new shoes jumped on his feet. He could run and play, finally.

The dark waters kept on mirroring the young lady’s tales: she collected misfortunate children’s tears, turning their miseries into happiness. Until the black buttons on her red cloak grew as deep as inky lakes.

Ink spilling on white pages inspiring tales.

That buzzing again. I was in my bed. A shadow of a lady was dancing in the bedroom until it turned into a ladybug. It landed on my unfinished book.

I opened it.

I had enough ink to move the child from behind the apple tree.