Polly’s obsidian eyes glittered.

One month later, Juniper’s mother found her sneaking in through the back gate at 2 a.m. She was furious at first. Then she saw her daughter’s face—not sullen, not sad. Peaceful.

“My dad moved out today,” Juniper said.

Polly never repeated herself. Her voice grew stronger. Sometimes, when Juniper arrived, Polly was already facing the entrance, as if she’d been listening for footsteps in the dark.

Her name was Polly.

She found the aviary by accident. The dome’s glass had mostly shattered, but the iron latticework made a beautiful cage of stars. And there, on the central pedestal, sat Polly.

“My name is Polly,” the bird continued. “I remember everyone who ever visited me. You are Juniper May Chen. You came here once before, when you were three. You were wearing yellow boots and you cried because your balloon flew into the sky. I watched you. I remembered.”

“How are you talking?” Juniper whispered.

“You’re waking them up,” Juniper said one evening.

“Hello,” Juniper whispered.