Pigúiça's blankie had a name: Little Star. It was light blue, soft, covered in embroidered stars, and a bit worn from so much love. It smelled like home and good sleep. Pigúiça took Little Star everywhere: to the garden, to the table, even to the bath, where it hung on the clothesline, waiting.
One morning, while she was chasing a butterfly, she stepped on the corner of the blankie and tripped, splat, nose first in the grass. “Ow!” said Pigúiça. And she looked at Little Star, all dirty and stretched out.
Fofuxo, who was passing by, sat down next to her. He helped brush the dirt off the blankie with his paw. “Pigúiça, have you noticed something?” he asked. “You're growing. Your legs are longer. Your ears reach higher.”
“Am I?” she said, looking at her own paws. “But I don't want to grow up far from Little Star.” “Nobody said far,” said Fofuxo. “It can stay close by. It just doesn't have to go everywhere. How about we make a special little home for it?”
They found a little wooden box at the back of the closet. Pigúiça lined the box with soft leaves, washed the blankie in the stream, and left it to dry in the sun. Then she folded Little Star very carefully and laid it inside.
“Good night, Little Star,” she said. “You took care of me. Now rest for a while.” She set the box on the shelf beside her bed, from where the blankie could see the whole room.
But when night came, it was harder. Pigúiça turned to one side. She turned to the other. She was missing something soft to hold. Her tummy felt wobbly and her eyes grew damp. “Fofuxo?” she called softly.
Fofuxo came without making a sound. He lay down beside her little bed, his golden fur very close. The way the light came through the window, his fur looked full of tiny shining stars, one for every hair.
“You can hold on a little, if you want,” he said. Pigúiça buried her nose in the soft fur. It was warm. It smelled like gingerbread and a field of flowers. She breathed in, breathed out, in the same rhythm as her friend.
On the shelf, the little box stayed quiet, standing guard, with Little Star inside, dreaming too. That night, Pigúiça discovered something. The comfort wasn't only in the blankie. It was in Fofuxo's fur, on the shelf, in the bed, in the whole house. It was something very big, and it fit everywhere.
She yawned. The little stars in his fur twinkled slowly, ever so slowly. And Pigúiça fell asleep, her nose resting against her friend, her head full of sky.
