She came when the mist was thickest—when the moon hung low and heavy, like a secret too sacred to speak aloud.
No one knew her name. Not the wind that tousled her hair, nor the stars that blinked in quiet reverence. She wore a white top like a whisper of dawn, and a black skirt that trailed behind her like spilled ink across the field of pink grass. The villagers called her Moonwake, for she only appeared when the crescent moon glowed unnaturally large, casting silver shadows that bent reality.
They said she was a dream given form. A memory from a forgotten realm. A girl who had once lived in the castle beyond the fog—before it vanished from maps and minds.
But Moonwake remembered.
She remembered the way the castle’s spires pierced the sky like needles threading fate. She remembered the lullabies sung by the river that curled around its base. She remembered the boy with eyes like stormlight, who taught her how to speak to stars.
And she remembered the night the veil tore.
It happened when the moon turned violet and the grass bled crimson. A rift opened between worlds—between what was and what could never be again. The boy was pulled into the rift, reaching for her hand, but she was too slow. Too afraid. Too human.
Since then, she had wandered the liminal fields, searching for the seam between realities. Her presence bent time. Flowers bloomed in reverse. Owls spoke in riddles. The crescent moon followed her like a guardian, its glow a tether to the boy lost in the in-between.
One night, as the fog thickened and the castle shimmered faintly in the distance, Moonwake stood still. Her arms extended, palms open to the sky. The wind stilled. The stars leaned closer. And the moon pulsed—once, twice—before a single beam of light descended.
From that light stepped the boy.
He was older now, his eyes filled with galaxies she hadn’t yet seen. But he smiled the same way. Like he knew her heart before she spoke.
“You found the seam,” he said.
“I never stopped looking,” she replied.
They walked together toward the castle, which grew clearer with each step. The grass turned lavender. The mist parted. And the moon, no longer crescent, became whole.
Some say they vanished into legend. Others claim the castle reappeared for a single night, its windows aglow with laughter and music. But the field remains—pink and wild, under a moon that sometimes swells with memory.
And if you stand there long enough, you might hear her voice in the wind.
Whispering.
“There are worlds stitched into silence. You only need to listen.”
