The Moon That Forgot Her Face

Long before people named constellations, the Moon had a face. She would lean close to oceans and smile at her reflection rippling across the waves. But pride, as always, ruins even the divine.

One night, the stars grew jealous. They whispered to the sea, “Do not reflect her light. Let her see what it feels like to be unseen.” The ocean obeyed. The next dawn, when the Moon looked down, her reflection was gone.

She wept for a thousand nights. Without her face, she could not rise; her glow dimmed, and tides stopped moving. Lovers no longer found each other by moonlight. Wolves forgot how to sing.

So the Moon descended to earth, walking as a pale woman through forests and deserts, searching for someone — anyone — who remembered her. Each person she touched forgot their own name. That was the cost of trying to give her back an identity.

Finally, a blind poet took her hand and said, “I can’t see your face, but I can remember your light.” The Moon smiled for the first time in centuries. That night, she rose again — faceless, but whole.