Jade counted the chairs she'd arranged in three neat rows behind her house. Twelve seats total. Not enough for a real talent show, but it was a start. She pulled her pink hoodie tighter against the cold and looked at the patch of snow-packed ground she'd cleared that morning. This would be her stage someday—a real venue where kids could perform every single week. A place with lights that actually worked and microphones that didn't buzz. She tucked her clipboard under her arm and smiled, picturing the rows of kids waiting for their turn to shine. Mr. Floppington peeked out from her pocket, his fuzzy ears catching snowflakes. "We're gonna make this happen," she whispered, bonking his nose three times for luck. The backyard shows were getting too crowded. Last week, sixteen kids showed up and half of them had to stand. Tommy's mom complained about the cold. Sarah's little brother cried because he couldn't see. Jade flipped through her clipboard pages, studying the attendance numbers she'd tracked with her color-coded system. Green for performers, blue for audience, yellow for maybe-next-time kids. She needed a real building. Somewhere warm. Somewhere everyone could fit. She spotted it on Tuesday while walking past the shops—a closed ice cream parlor with a sprinkle-dotted roof and pink walls. The Sprinkle Cat Parlor. Empty windows stared back at her. Inside, she could see old tables and a counter. Her heart hammered. This could be it. A stage could go right there by the window. Chairs could line up in rows. Kids could perform where people walking by might stop and watch. She pressed her nose against the glass, her breath fogging up the window. That night, Jade made a plan. She wrote "Operation Sprinkle Stage" at the top of a fresh clipboard page. First, she needed permission to use the building. Second, she needed a way to tell everyone about shows. She'd seen a message board near the shops that announced events. If she could post there, kids would know when to come. Third, performers needed something better than snow-packed ground to stand on. She sketched a bench in her notebook—something sturdy where kids could sit before their turn, or stand on to be seen. Her pencil moved fast across the paper. Mr. Floppington sat propped against her lamp, watching. This wasn't just a backyard dream anymore. This was real.