Kit turned around very slowly, because her grandmother had taught her that when you're scared, you move slowly, and you look at what's in front of you, and you don't run until you know what you're running from.
The woman standing in the doorway of the long room was neither young nor old. Her hair was silver, but her face was smooth. Her eyes were pale, the color of moonlight on water, and she was wearing a long gray coat with deep pockets, and in each pocket, Kit could see the shapes of things — buttons, and beads, and small glass jars.
"Don't be afraid," the woman said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I never hurt anyone. I only keep things."
"Keep things?" Kit said. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted it to.
"The lost things," the woman said. She walked into the room, past the shelves, past the thousands of jars, and she stopped in front of Kit, and she looked at her the way Kit's grandmother used to look at her — like she was seeing all of Kit at once, not just the outside. "I'm Anselma. I've been the keeper of this room for a very long time. Longer than you've been alive. Longer than this town has been a town."
"You're the one taking the moon," Kit said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation, and she was surprised at how steady her voice sounded.
Anselma smiled, sadly. "No, love. I'm the one keeping what's left of it."
She reached up to the nearest shelf and took down a jar. Inside it, the moonlight shimmered, faint and silver. "Do you know what the moon is made of?" she asked.
"Rock," Kit said. "Everybody knows that."
"Everybody is wrong," Anselma said. "The moon is made of wishes. Every wish anyone has ever made and forgotten — every birthday candle, every shooting star, every coin in a fountain — it goes up, and it becomes a piece of the moon. That's why the moon shines. It's not reflecting the sun. It's shining with all the wishes people made and forgot."
Kit stared at her. She thought about the tin box under her bed. Forty-three buttons. Eleven earrings. A key. A marble. A photograph of a dog.
"Then why is it disappearing?" Kit asked.
"Because people have stopped wishing," Anselma said. She put the jar back on the shelf, gently, the way you put a sleeping baby back in its crib. "Not all at once. A little at a time. They wish on their phones now, and they forget before the screen goes dark. They make wishes they don't mean. They make wishes and then they laugh at themselves for making them. And every wish that's forgotten takes a little piece of the moon with it. One night at a time. That's how it goes. First the moon gets thin. Then it gets pale. Then one night, it's just... gone. And when it's gone, the town forgets how to wish at all. I've seen it happen three times now. Three towns. Three moons. I keep the pieces here, in the jars, because someday — someday — someone is going to remember. And when they do, I'll be ready."
Wren stepped forward. "That's what happened to my town," she said. "The moon went out. And nobody remembered it was ever there. Except me. I remembered, because I kept drawing it."
"You remembered," Anselma said, nodding at Wren. "And you —" she turned to Kit, "— you kept collecting. The buttons. The earrings. The jars on your windowsill. Do you know what those are, love?"
Kit's mouth was dry. "Lost things," she said.
"Forgotten wishes," Anselma said. "Every one of them. The button belonged to a man who wished he could go home. The earring belonged to a girl who wished someone would notice her. The marble belonged to a boy who wished his father would come back. You didn't just collect them, Kit. You kept them warm. You kept them alive. That's why you're here. That's why the door opened for you. The room doesn't open for just anyone."
Kit reached into her pocket. She took out the dark blue button. It was warmer than ever now, almost hot, like a coal in her hand.
"And this one?" she asked.
Anselma looked at it, and her pale eyes went wide. "That one," she said, very quietly, "is a wish someone made tonight. A real one. A true one. And they haven't forgotten it yet. Do you know whose it is?"
Kit shook her head.
"It's yours," Anselma said. "You made it last night, on the roof, when you looked at the moon and you said — what did you say?"
Kit remembered. She remembered standing on the roof at eleven o'clock, holding her arm straight out, covering the moon with her thumbnail, and whispering to the dark.
"I said, 'I see you,'" Kit whispered.
"And the moon heard you," Anselma said. "It's been waiting for someone to see it. Really see it. Not just look at it. See it."
Wren took Kit's hand. Her hand was cold. "What do we do?" she asked. "How do we bring it back?"
Anselma was quiet for a long time. She looked at the shelves, at the thousands of jars, at the names in faded ink. "To bring the moon back," she said, finally, "someone has to give the wishes back. All of them. Open the jars. Let the light go home. And to do that, someone has to give up everything they've kept. Every button. Every jar. Every lost thing. You have to let go of all of it, all at once, and then you have to make a wish — a real one, a true one — and mean it with your whole heart. And you have to do it before the moon goes out completely. You have three nights. That's all that's left."
"Three nights," Kit repeated.
"Three nights," Anselma said. "And then it's gone. Not just from Graywater. From everywhere. The moon doesn't belong to one town. It belongs to everyone. If it goes out here, it goes out everywhere."
Kit looked at the jar on the shelf, the one labeled KIT. It was empty. She looked at the backpack on her shoulder, where the oldest jar of moonlight was — the one labeled JUNE 12, FIRST MOONLIGHT, the one her grandmother had caught with her when she was seven. She thought about the tin box under her bed. Forty-three buttons. Eleven earrings. A key. A marble. A photograph of a dog. A bus ticket. A silver thimble. A single white glove. All the stories she had given them. All the wishes she had kept warm, without knowing what they were.
"Okay," Kit said. She took the backpack off her shoulder. She opened it. She took out the oldest jar, and she held it up, and the shimmer inside it was faint, barely there, like a candle about to go out. "Okay. I'll do it. But I need to know one thing first."
"What?" Anselma asked.
"Why me?" Kit said. "Why am I the one? I'm seventeen. I collect buttons. I'm nobody."
Anselma smiled, and for the first time, she looked young — really young, like a girl not much older than Kit, with moon-pale eyes and silver hair and a long gray coat with deep pockets full of lost things.
"Because you're the keeper of lost things," Anselma said. "And the moon is the lostest thing there is."
Kit nodded. She put the jar back in her backpack. She took Wren's hand. They walked to the door together, and Anselma followed them, and at the doorway, Anselma put a hand on Kit's shoulder, and her hand was cold as moonlight, and warm as a heartbeat, both at once.
"Three nights," Anselma said. "Come back tomorrow night, and bring the box. Bring all of it. And Kit —"
"Yes?"
"Don't tell anyone. Not yet. If the town finds out the moon is disappearing, they'll panic, and panicking people don't wish. They just run."
Kit and Wren went out into the night. The door closed behind them, soft as a sigh, and when Kit turned around to look at it, it was gone. There was only the hillside, and the old oak, and the soft ground, and the thin, pale moon in the sky, smaller than it had been yesterday, smaller than it would ever be again.
They walked home in silence, and Kit could feel the dark blue button in her pocket, warm as a coal, and she could feel the weight of the jar in her backpack, and she could feel the whole town sleeping around her, under a moon that was disappearing one night at a time.
At her front door, Wren stopped. "Kit," she said. "Are you scared?"
"Yes," Kit said. "Are you?"
"Yes," Wren said. "But I'm also glad. Because for the first time since we moved here, I don't feel alone. I feel like — like the town is still awake. Like something is still listening."
Kit nodded. She went inside. She went up to her room. She took the tin box out from under her bed, and she opened it, and she looked at everything inside it — the buttons, the earrings, the key, the marble, the photograph, the bus ticket, the thimble, the glove — and she thought about the fact that every single one of them was a wish someone had made and forgotten, and that she had kept them all, and that tomorrow night, she was going to have to give them all back.
She picked up the dark blue button. She held it in her palm. It was warm. It was the warmest thing she had ever held.
And then she did something she had never done before. She closed her eyes, and she made a wish — a real one, a true one — and she meant it with her whole heart.
She wished for the town to remember how to wish.
The button flared, hot and bright in her hand, like a tiny star. And outside her window, the moon flared too — bright, sudden, silver-white, like someone had turned it back on.
And then, all at once, every light in Graywater went out. Every porch light. Every streetlight. Every window. The whole town went dark, like someone had pulled a plug.
And in the darkness, Kit heard the moon — really heard it, for the first time in her life — and it was calling her by name.
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