When the moon peeped in soft and low, Ivy reached for her little velvet bear — the one that hummed a slow, sleepy song when you squeezed its paw. But the bear was not on the pillow. It was not under the quilt. It was nowhere at all.
Ivy went very still. Her hands curled into small tight fists, and her lip began to wobble.
"I feel worried," she whispered into the dark. And when she said it out loud, the worried felt a little bit smaller.
"Let's look together," said Mom, and her voice was warm and soft.
So Ivy padded down the hall, past the shoes in a row, past the sleepy coats. She peeked behind the reading chair. Only a lost sock was there. She peeked under the table. Only a crumb was there.
Then Ivy remembered the story before supper — the bear tucked in the laundry basket, playing at being a little nest. Her feet knew the way. Down, down to the basket by the warm dryer, where the clean towels smelled so soft.
And there, deep in the folds, the velvet bear was waiting.
Ivy squeezed its little paw. Out came the slow, humming song, low and round, filling up the quiet house. The worried was all gone now.
Back up the hall she went, bear held close under her chin. Into the quilt, into the hush, into the moon-soft dark.
The bear hummed. Ivy hummed too, softer, softer, until the two songs were one gentle sound. And the humming went on and on, warm and slow, carrying her down and down toward sleep.