The Snails on the Steps
On Saturday morning, Lemony came to the terrace. She perched on the trapdoor and sang: tee-ree-ree.
The trapdoor lifted. On the first step sat three snails. A big one, a middle one and a small one.
And Lemony told everyone:
“The snails left the town on the Night of the Towers. They climbed all night. And all day. And one more night. Now they're here.”
Kiwi sniffed them with his brown nose.
“All that way? For us? What's in their little houses? Can I play with them? A little?”
Mango opened one eye.
“Two days on a few steps,” he said. “I climb them in a blink.”
And he closed his eye again.
Lemony flew into the room, to the window beside the crib. Mom watched her go. She put the snails on her palm and carried them there. Slowly, so as not to hurry them.
The big snail pressed itself against the glass. Then the middle snail. Then the small snail. And they began to go round in a circle. A big circle. A smaller circle. A tiny, tiny circle.
On the glass, a silver spiral was left behind.
“For... the night,” said the big snail. Slowly. Very slowly.
In the evening, Mom turned off the light. The spiral on the glass glowed softly, like a little moon. Siena looked at it. A big circle. A smaller circle. A tiny, tiny circle.
Kiwi fell asleep first. Mango pretended he wasn't looking. And he looked.
Tower by tower, the town of Siena fell asleep.
Goodnight, Siena.