Three moons. That’s how long it takes them to go there and back. And they always come back.
They always come back.
The third full moon let off a soft glow, its dull rays flowing over the jagged tree whose branches, reaching out, grasped the moon in its entirety, as if to pull it just a little closer. It was dark, which was nice. Better than the sun at least.
It took both hands to get back on my feet. A plain of bent grass circled the tree’s circumference, unfolding a leg’s length from where its roots snuck into the soil. It would be hard to discern where I had slept that day if not for the me-shaped absence of fresh white petals, which otherwise gathered plentifully beneath the tree’s branches. One step back, and eight petals filled in the gap, one tickling my ear on its way down.
The grass straightened as I backed away from the tree. My foot swiped the ground, and a few faint petals floated just into sight above the grassline, a wave of white washing for only a moment. It took too long for them to return. Most of them retired to their places, passing through the grass, to the ground, like a ghost’s footsteps.
One didn’t make it. A single strand of light, strung through the tree’s bark like thread through a needle, pierced the leaf’s pale surface, and it left, gone for now. It was getting late.
As if that mattered.
How long had it been? Not long enough? Hopefully not. I missed them. A lot.
The clouds lit up. They had been there all along, I think, just waiting. They looked like they wanted to come down to greet me. Beyond them, the sky was brighter now. Pink, but kind. Gentle. Nice. A wisp of a breeze slid over my tongue, a little sweet. Nice.
They spun, the clouds. Left, right, up, down, around and around and around and around and lower. Only slightly though, just enough to be orange. It was a nice orange.
I like my cabin, it’s nice and cool and nice. And gentle, like the clouds, but not only sometimes. Always. The door is nice, too. It likes me, I think. It has a nice hole in it, just to let mice in. There’s a nice floor, smooth and soft and soothing and grey, but not like the trees. Like the flowers, the super secret see-through ghostly petals.
It rang, the wind. It rang. It was nice, like the floor, the door, the cabin, the clouds, the breeze, the trees, like orange, like pink. Like white petals over a motionless pond, floating down to the surface, radiating ripples all around.
Footsteps. The breeze. A chill.
Creaks. The light. Bright.
“I’ve been waiting.” It was wet. They were nice and cold.
“We know.” The nice door closed behind them.
Four arms. Nice arms. They picked me up, carried me to the covers, which blocked my entrance into bed. Two arms, no more covers. Four, and I took the covers’ place. Zero, but cool, and soft.
“Good morning.” One, one, one.
two, two, One more creak.
Some light, yellow, warm, crept in through the thin curtain, but it was nice, like the moon.