Milo’s New Room

At Milo’s place, there were boxes everywhere. Boxes in the hallway, boxes in the kitchen, boxes stacked up so high they looked like a tower. Tomorrow, the whole family was moving to a house on the other side of town.

Milo sat on his bed and looked up at his bedroom ceiling. Up there were seven stars that glowed in the dark. Dad had stuck them up when Milo was little, in the shape of the Big Dipper.

“Are the stars staying here?” Milo asked. Then, before anyone could answer: “Can I take them with me?”

Dad smiled and went to get the stepladder. He peeled the stars off one by one, very carefully, and Milo put them in a little glass jar. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Not a single one lost.

Next, Milo packed his treasure box. In went his heart-shaped rock, his lucky blue marble, his little compass, and the jar with the seven stars. Mom helped him write on the lid in big letters: MILO’S TREASURES. FRAGILE. There was no way this box was going in the moving truck. It would ride on his lap.

Before they left, Milo walked around his empty room. “Goodbye, window where I watched the trains go by. Goodbye, corner where I read books with Mom. Goodbye, room.” His voice bounced around a little, because there was nothing left inside.

The new house smelled like fresh paint. The movers carried in the boxes, the furniture, the couch. Milo climbed the stairs, holding his box tight, and opened the door to his new room.

It was big. It was white. It was empty. There was nothing in it except the light coming through a window he didn’t know yet. “Hello?” said Milo. “…lo… lo…” said the room.

Milo took a step back. “This room doesn’t know me,” he whispered. “It isn’t mine.” Mom crouched down beside him. “Not yet,” she said. “What do you think it needs to become yours?”

Milo looked at the bare white walls, then at the box he was holding tight. He set it down in the middle of the floor and lifted the lid. “It needs treasures,” he decided.

So Milo took charge. He picked the spot for his bed: under the window, so he could see the sky. He put his heart-shaped rock on the windowsill, with his lucky blue marble right beside it. He tucked his compass in the nightstand drawer. Dad put the bed back together, Mom hung the green curtains from the old room, and Milo unrolled his old round rug, the one with a road drawn on it.

That left the jar of stars. Dad got out the stepladder again. “Do you remember the shape?” “The Big Dipper,” said Milo. And he pointed, star by star: one, two, three, four for the bowl, and five, six, seven for the handle. Dad stuck them up exactly where Milo said.

Through the window, Milo spotted a big tree in the yard next door. On one of its branches, a gray squirrel was looking at him, holding an acorn in its paws. Then, zip, it scampered all the way to the top. “A squirrel!” Milo cried. “My old room had the trains. This one has a squirrel.”

That night, Milo put on his pajamas and climbed into bed, under the window. Mom turned off the light. And above him, in the dark, seven stars began to glow softly in the shape of the Big Dipper, just like before.

“Good night, stars,” said Milo. “Good night, squirrel. Good night…” He stopped. He listened. The room wasn’t repeating anything anymore. With the bed, the rug, the curtains, and all the treasures, the echo was gone.

Milo smiled in the dark. “Good night, my room,” he whispered. And this time, the room didn’t answer. It just let him sleep.