The Ruins looked dull today, all cracks and forgotten carvings. So I decided to give them a holiday gift—something bright enough to make even the shadows gossip.

I gathered shards of old tiles: blues like twilight, reds like sunrise, whites that still remembered the moon. I pressed them into a pattern across the broken floor until they fit, not perfectly, but proudly.

When night arrived, the moonlight poured through a missing wall and hit my new mosaic. It gleamed like the floor had caught a piece of the sky. The Ruins hummed, pleased with themselves.

I bowed, whiskers high. “See?” I told them. “You were never broken. Just waiting for a better arrangement.” Even old places like to feel useful again.

The Ruins keep secrets, but I’m learning to leave my own. This morning I found a patch of sunlight caught in a jar shard. It winked at me, bold as a jewel. I tucked it into a crack in the wall—just a little gift for whoever finds it next.

After that, I dusted off an old statue until its smile came back. “You’re welcome,” I told it. Queens believe in good manners. The pigeons approved with applause that sounded like feathers clapping.

By midday, the stones glowed warm enough to nap on. I stretched, tail flicking, and thought about how light likes to travel but also loves to rest. We’re the same that way.

When the sun dipped low, I whispered, “Stay a while.” The shard caught one last sparkle before the shadows closed in. Real thanks doesn’t grab—it just holds on kindly.

The Ruins glitter in that special hour when the sun bows to the moon. Light slides across the stones like silk ribbons, and even the dust looks fancy. I perch on a broken wall, tail swishing, watching the day pack up its glow.

Everyone loves the moon, but I think the sun deserves a good send-off. It worked all day, poor dear. So I raise my mirror shard and catch the last beam just right. It bounces around the pillars, golden and dramatic. Perfect exit.

The first stars peek out, giggling behind clouds. I wink back. The Ruins smell like warm stone and sleepy stories. I stretch, yawn, and promise to greet the moon properly next time. Balance, after all, takes practice—even for queens.

When night settles, the ribbons fade, but the glow stays tucked under my fur. The Ruins may rest, but I’ll keep the sparkle safe until dawn.

The Ruins love a little drama. Sunlight drops between the stones like golden ribbons, and I catch them on my paws just to see them shimmer. Some say the old walls only whisper when no one listens. I say they hum for anyone brave enough to notice.

I spent the morning chasing reflections across cracked tiles. Every shimmer holds a tiny secret—yesterday’s glow still hiding under today’s dust. When I lean close, I can almost hear the hum of old laughter, and I like to think it’s mine.

Being curious is part of my charm, you know. I dusted one fallen statue and found a mirror still tucked behind its paw. It showed me a face that looked proud and a little smudged. Perfect. I bowed to it, of course. Queens must practice.

By the time the light fades, the stones grow warm from all that attention. I press my paw there and whisper, “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll visit tomorrow.” The Ruins may crumble, but their stories still shine if you look closely enough.