Purl and the Room That Stayed the Same

Lumi the snow leopard cub loved her den at the top of the mountain house, where the blankets smelled of pine and her stone lamp glowed like a small caught sun. Every night, Mama tucked the blanket under her chin and pressed a cool nose to her forehead, and every night, Lumi believed the room would stay exactly the size it was in the lamplight -- four walls, one window, a ceiling she could touch with her eyes.

Then Mama reached for the lamp switch, the way she always did, and the light folded itself away.

Lumi's chest went tight and quick, like a paw squeezed too hard. She could not find where the ceiling met the walls anymore. Without that edge, without that corner, the room felt like it had no top at all -- like her bed was floating at the bottom of something that went up and up, further than her den, further than the mountain, further than she could think about without her breath catching. She thought, if I can't see the edges, maybe there aren't any. That thought sat heavy on her chest, right where her heart was knocking.

"It feels too big," Lumi whispered into the dark, and her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.