The moon had been silent for thirty years.
Once, its silver light had woven through the trees, painting the night in liquid mercury. Once, people had whispered wishes to it, certain—in that way of all dreamers—that it listened.
Then the fires came. The smoke. The endless, starless dark.
Lena was the only one who still remembered the old songs. As a child, her grandmother had pressed a rusted telescope into her hands and said, "Keep watch. One day, it will need us."
Tonight, the smog parted just enough.
There it was—not the gleaming pearl of legend, but a tarnished sliver, barely visible. Lena’s breath caught. She raised the telescope.
And the moon blinked.
A crack ran through its surface, deep and jagged. Inside, something pulsed. A slow, fading light.
Lena did the only thing left to do. She sang.
Her voice cracked at first, then grew stronger—the lullaby her grandmother had taught her, the one that spoke of tides and time and things that sleep but do not die.
High above, the crack in the moon shimmered.
And for the first time in three decades, a single beam of silver light broke through the dark—touching Lena’s upturned face like a finger to a tear.
The next morning, the world woke to whispers.
Did you see it?
The moon looked… different.
Lena smiled, her throat raw, and tightened her grip on the telescope.
Some things just needed to be remembered back to life.
