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One evening, little Meera refused to sleep. "The sky is too beautiful," she whispered. So the stars heard her — and one by one, they floated down through her window like golden fireflies. The smallest star, barely bigger than a marble, landed on her pillow. "We get lonely up there too," it said. Meera giggled and tucked it under her blanket. Together, they counted backwards from a hundred. By forty-two, both were fast asleep — Meera dreaming of constellations, and the tiny star dreaming of warm blankets.

Rudo found the map inside his grandmother's old recipe book — drawn in turmeric ink on the back of a dosa batter stain. "X marks the sweetest mango in the world," read the tiny writing. He packed his slingshot, three rotis, and his best friend's phone number (just in case). The trail led through the neighbourhood park, past the chai stall where Mr. Iyer waved, and into the lane behind the temple nobody ever walked down. There, behind a crumbling wall covered in jasmine, stood a tree so heavy with mangoes that its branches touched the ground. Rudo bit into one. It tasted like summer holidays and his grandmother's laugh.