The Quiet Hour
At the quietest time of day, Floki notices the things others miss — including one small red light in the sky.
There was one part of the day Floki liked more than the others.
Not breakfast. Not walks. Not even the moment when someone opened the cupboard where the good treats were kept.
It was the quiet hour — the time just after the noise of the day had faded, but before the night had fully arrived.
Floki would sit outside and watch. Cars became fewer. Windows began to glow. Somewhere in the distance, a door would close. A bird would call once, then stop.
Floki liked noticing things: a leaf moving in air that otherwise seemed still, a light turning on three houses away, the soft sound of someone walking before they came into view.
He was good at waiting.
That evening, the sky was especially clear. Floki tilted his head upward. There were countless little lights above him, but one caught his attention: small, red and steady.
He watched it for a long time. There was no reason to. Still, he did.
Behind him, someone called his name. Floki looked back, then returned his gaze to the sky. The red light was still there.
For once, even Floki had no idea what he was looking at. He simply knew he would remember it.
Not every red dot is a postcard.