Sometimes the moon breathes stories she longs to see painted.
She leans close, her silver breath pooling in the shadows of my room. Her voice is soft—like the tide brushing against stones—but urgent, like she’s running out of time. Paint me a forest, she says, but not the kind that grows from soil. Make it out of memories—gnarled roots of loss, leaves of laughter, and branches reaching for what might have been.
I hesitate, brush in hand, because her requests are heavy, almost sacred. But she doesn’t stop. She never stops. And in that forest, let there be a path. Not straight, not easy, but winding and wild, the kind where you get lost on purpose. Let it carry someone to a clearing where they’ll meet themselves for the first time.
Her light spills across my canvas, not with warmth, but with clarity—she shows me what I’ve hidden even from myself. I see the outlines of faces I’ve loved and forgotten, the shapes of dreams I’ve abandoned. I see the me I used to be, staring back from a distance.
Paint me something real, she urges. Not perfect. Real.
So I dip my brush into colors I rarely touch. The deep blues of longing. The muted greys of waiting. The bright gold of fleeting joy. Each stroke feels like a confession, like I’m giving away parts of myself I didn’t know I still carried. And as the forest begins to grow beneath my hands, I hear her sigh in satisfaction.
Good, she murmurs. Now, let it rest in the light of my shadow. Let it hold its secrets. Let it speak to those who need it most, even if they don’t understand why.
When she leaves, the room feels darker. Quieter. But her stories remain—etched not just in the painting, but in me. The moon, I’ve learned, doesn’t just tell stories. She plants them. And if you listen closely, she might just show you how to grow them into something beautiful.