
It is bedtime, little one, but bedtime is full of just-one-mores. One more sip of water. One more story. One more hug, and then, wait, one more after that. On the windowsill sits a little wooden train with a row of small round windows, all of them dark, waiting.

Growy is even worse than you tonight. 'One more snack?' Growy begs. 'One more song? One more look out the window? One more, one more, one more!' You start to giggle. 'Growy,' you whisper, 'the train is waiting for us.' Growy stops, ears up. 'Oh. Right. The train.'

'Here is how the goodnight train works,' Growy says. 'Every time you let one just-one-more go, a window lights up. You do not lose the thing. You tuck it safe on the train, and it carries it to tomorrow for you.' You point at the first dark window. 'That one is my extra story.' It flickers, then glows warm and gold.

So you let them go, one by one, and one by one the windows light. The extra drink: glow. The extra hug you already had twice: glow. The song you know by heart: glow. The whole little train is shining now, warm as a row of tiny lamps. 'The train does not leave you behind,' Growy murmurs. 'It waits, every single night, exactly for you.'

The last window lights, and the little train pulls away so softly you feel it more than see it, carrying all your one-mores gently off toward morning. Your eyes are heavy. Growy is a warm weight against your side. 'So, little one,' Growy whispers, 'did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tomorrow,' says Growy. 'Name your three goodnight things before you climb in, then let the train take you.' See you tomorrow, little one.
