The first grey light lay along the edge of the world like a thin, soft blanket, and it did not come any closer. It only waited there, the way a kind grown-up waits in a doorway — near enough to keep you safe, far enough to let you sleep.
In the willow harbour, Marlow the little turtle did not wake. He was warm. He was tucked. The slow Hushabye River held his small boat of moonlight the way a hand holds something precious. And so, instead of opening his eyes, Marlow went the other way.
He went inward. He went softly down, into a dream.
And the dream was a meadow.
It was not a daytime meadow, all bright and busy. It was a meadow made of the soft grey hour — the hour that is not quite night and not yet morning. The grass was the colour of breath on a cool window. The flowers were closed and sleeping, their petals folded like little hands. And over everything lay a mist so gentle it felt like being inside a cloud that was also a quilt.
"Oh," said Marlow softly. "Where is this?"
"This is the Meadow Between," said a voice, low and kind.
Marlow turned. Standing in the mist was a tall, slim hare the colour of morning fog — a grey hare with long, calm ears and eyes like two quiet ponds. She did not hurry. She did not even seem to be in a hurry to not-hurry.
"Between what?" asked Marlow.
"Between the last star and the first light," said the grey hare. "It is the softest country there is. Nothing here has to wake up yet. Nothing here has to go anywhere. Things come to the Meadow Between when they would like to rest a little longer."
Marlow looked around. And now that he was looking gently, he could see them — all the soft sleepy things, resting in the grass. A snail curled like a small grey button. A drowsy bee tucked deep inside a folded flower. A single grey feather, lying as if it, too, were dreaming. Even the mist seemed to be lying down.
"Don't they need to get up?" Marlow whispered. "Isn't the morning coming?"
"The morning is coming," agreed the hare. "But the morning is patient. It is waiting at the edge of the world, and it does not mind waiting at all. You felt that, didn't you — the grey light that came so slowly, and did not pull at you?"
"Yes," said Marlow. "It only waited."
"That is its kindness," said the grey hare. "Morning never snatches anyone out of sleep. It opens the door, and then it lets you take all the time you need to walk through it — or to stay a little longer, here, in the Meadow Between."
Marlow yawned, a small warm yawn. The mist settled over him like a second quilt. He found a soft place in the grey grass, beside the curled snail and the drowsy bee, and he lay himself down.
"May I stay?" he asked.
"You may stay as long as you like," said the hare. "That is the whole and only rule of the Meadow Between. There is no hurry here. There never was."
And so Marlow stayed. He did not have to swim. He did not have to steer his little boat. He did not have to be the captain of anything at all. He had only to rest, in the softest country there is, with the morning waiting kindly at the door and the grey hare keeping her calm and patient watch.
The mist breathed in. The mist breathed out.
And far away, but never too far, the first light went on waiting — gently, gently — for no one to wake at all.