Princess Sylvie sat on her crystal throne and listened. Every night, the Great Hall chimed — a soft, bright hum, like a thousand tiny bells tapping their toes. But tonight, the hall was silent. Not quiet. Silent. The kind of silent that presses against your ears. Brr and Grumble, her two polar bears, were sitting in front of the throne with their big white paws flat on the floor. Not sleeping. Not snoring. Just sitting, with their eyebrows pushed together in worried little bumps.
"Something is wrong," said Sylvie. She slid off her throne in her ice-blue gown and put one hand on Brr's enormous head. His fur was cold and a little damp, the way it got when he was nervous. "We'll find it," she said. Chime, chime, chime, she thought. Where did you go? That's when she saw it — a hairline crack running along the base of the crystal throne. Thin as a needle. Sylvie bent down until her nose nearly touched the floor, one eye closed, peering inside. Deep in the crack, something pale was moving. Something small.
She followed the crack across the Great Hall, and it led her to a narrow corridor behind the throne she had never noticed before. The walls glittered like crushed sugar. Sylvie turned sideways and squeezed through, her gown whispering against the crystal on both sides. The corridor twisted left, then right, then down a small cold step. Sylvie's breath came out in little puffs she could see. The air smelled like the very top of a mountain — thin and sharp and clean. Chime, chime, chime, she whispered to herself, to keep going.
And then she found her. A snow-moth, no bigger than Sylvie's thumb, with wings like pressed tissue paper. One wing was caught in a tiny fold of crystal, and every time she fluttered — thrrrr — the vibration ran all the way up through the throne and swallowed the whole palace's chime like a hand pressed over a bell. "Oh," said Sylvie. "Oh, you poor thing. You've been trying so hard." The moth's antennae twitched. Tucked under her good wing was something small and folded — a piece of snowflake-thin paper, creased into a perfect square.
Sylvie reached into her hair and pulled out her silver hairpin — the bent one she kept meaning to fix. Carefully, slowly, she slid the pin into the crystal fold and eased it open, the way you open a stuck drawer you don't want to break. The moth's wing came free with the softest tick. And then — CHIME. The whole palace rang out at once, a clear bright sound that bounced off every wall and rolled down every corridor. Brr let out a startled woof from the Great Hall. Grumble sneezed so hard he sat down. The moth hovered for one moment, looking at Sylvie with eyes like two tiny chips of moonstone. Then she glided away down the corridor and out into the dark, carrying nothing — because Sylvie was already unfolding the little note.
It said: Thank you for keeping the light on. Sylvie read it twice. Then she tucked it into her pocket and made her way back through the glittering corridor to the Great Hall, where Brr and Grumble were already curling up, their scarves looped around their necks, their big paws overlapping. She wrapped each scarf a little tighter — chime, chime, chime — and climbed back onto her throne. The palace hummed around her, steady and bright, every crystal singing its small cold note. Sylvie sat very still, feet dangling, hands folded, eyes slowly going heavy.
