Mini-Myth: The Missing Afternoon

Your dragon is standing on the windowsill, staring outside. It’s dark out there. Suspiciously, unexpectedly dark.

He looks at the clock. He looks at you. Then he looks back at the clock.

You know exactly what he’s thinking. It’s barely five-thirty. You haven’t even put dinner out. And yet, somehow, the sun has already gone to bed.

Your dragon presses his nose against the window, searching the dark sky for some sign of daylight. Not one wink or ray remains. He turns toward you with an expression of profound disappointment.

“I know,” you tell him. “It’s a big change.” You explain that the clocks “fell back” over the weekend. Everyone turned them back an hour, and now the sun seems to disappear before the day is done.

Your dragon studies the kitchen clock. He leans in close and sniffs. Then he gives it a puzzled little glare.

You chuckle in sympathy. You can’t really blame him.

“We can still make the best of it,” you say.

You heat some chicken soup and rummage through the cupboard for a package of crackers. Your dragon watches with interest, occasionally glancing at the kitchen clock as though he still doesn’t quite trust it.

When the soup is ready, you carry two steaming bowls into the living room and set them on the little table beside your favorite chair. You light the oil lamp, settle into the chair, and pull a blanket over your legs.

Your dragon climbs into your lap, turns around twice, tucks his tail beneath his chin, and settles against you with a contented sigh.

A moment later, you notice something. His scales are glowing. Not brightly, just a soft, golden-orange shimmer, like the last gentle rays of an autumn sunset.

You smile and tuck the blanket around him. The soup can wait.

The sun may be setting earlier these days. But it seems you’ve got a little extra sunset right here.