She sat down on the damp grass near the cliff by the lake. The night was cold — not the kind that bit sharply, but the slow, creeping cold that seeps into the skin and settles in the bones. Her thin green frock did nothing to protect her. It clung to her legs, heavy with dew, and every gust of wind sent a small shiver through her body.

All around her, the paddy fields whispered like a thousand soft sighs. The tall blades of rice swayed under the moonlight, bending and rising as if breathing with her. Somewhere far away, a night bird called once, then silence returned. The air smelled of wet soil and lake water — a scent raw, honest, and alive.

It was almost eleven. The rest of the world slept under its roofs, breathing in warmth and comfort. But she couldn’t. The little girl of eleven had learned early that comfort wasn’t meant for everyone.

She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. The green frock she wore — the one she hated — rustled faintly. It wasn’t just the color she despised, but what it reminded her of: being unwanted, being told what to wear, how to behave, how to shrink into obedience. The frock was her silence stitched into fabric.

She sat all alone.

Yet to her soul, it was the least lonely moment of her day.

Beneath this open sky, no one shouted her name in anger. No plates crashed. No footsteps echoed across the floor like warnings. The wind didn’t scold her; the moon didn’t judge. The quiet lapping of the lake and the rhythm of the crickets were gentler than any lullaby she’d ever known.

The fireflies drifted around her, pulsing softly in and out of the dark — tiny flickers of gold that refused to die. She watched them through a blur of tears, and something in their fragile light mirrored her heart. They were small, flickering, and stubbornly alive. She, too, was trying not to disappear.

Her small fingers brushed at her tears, but they kept falling — warm streaks against her cold cheeks. Her breath trembled in the night air. Still, it was less cold under the sky than beneath the roof she had been given.

The roof meant walls, and those walls meant silence — the kind that could bruise without a single sound. It was the silence of people who pretended she wasn’t there. So she had run — barefoot, breathless — until she reached this cliff where the lake shimmered below like broken glass, reflecting a moon that looked just as lonely as she felt.

She tilted her head back. The moon was bright, whole, and surrounded by a sea of stars — yet even among them, it looked apart.

A beautiful thing that no one touched.

The darkness around her felt kinder than the smiles beneath the roof. The wind smelled of grass and earth, rough and pure. It was better than all the perfumes people wore in that place she ran from.

“Can you come down for me for once?” she whispered to the sky.

Her voice was thin, trembling — a secret shared with the universe.

Her lips quivered. “The people are not nice to me,” she said, voice cracking. “They always say things to me. They always hate on me for being me. No one likes me. It’s so suffocating.”

Her words came out in bursts, like she was trying to breathe between sobs. “Can you become a human and reach me? I have no one here who wants me.”

It wasn’t her first time crying to the moon — but tonight, her tears carried a prayer.

She tried to wipe them again, but the more she did, the more they fell — steady, endless, like a rain only she could feel.

“No one protects me,” she whispered. “I see other children… the girls in my class, they’re all loved. Their mom and dad buy them whatever they want. They wear pink, and it makes them look beautiful. They have Barbie stickers. When there’s lunch break, their tiffins are full of home-cooked food…”

Her breath hitched. “Their parents come to pick them up. The boys in my class always call them pretty. All the girls are friends, and the teachers love them.”

Her gaze dropped to her frock — its worn green fabric catching faint moonlight. “While I—” she paused, her voice breaking, “I’m always stuck like this.”

She plucked at one of the cheap plastic buttons on her dress, forcing it loose until it snapped free and rolled into her palm. She stared at it, small and round, like a fragile world. Then she threw it into the lake below. It vanished with a faint plop, leaving ripples that stretched and faded — like her own voice dissolving into the dark.

“Why, moon? Why my life is like this?”

Her voice rose for the first time — not loud, but raw, aching. The sound trembled through the air and died in the water’s stillness.

“Please come down,” she whispered, almost pleading now. “Please, it’s so lonely here.”

Her eyes followed the moon’s reflection trembling on the lake. “Please, if I can’t belong to a family that loves me… then please, moon, become one for me.”

The night deepened, the air heavy with cold and unshed dreams.

She spoke again, her voice quieter but firmer, “I read about you in my science book and also in literature — both in scientific and poetic language. The moon is like the groom of darkness who illuminates it, turning it into moonlight… like soulmates and celestial beings do in fairytales. And my name… it means darkness. Queen of night. Eternal light — all together, in different languages.”

Her small forehead wrinkled as she thought, eyes shining with the reflection of fireflies and moonlight.

“Isn’t it like Aladdin and Jasmine? Cinderella and her prince? They meet, they fall in love, and they belong to each other. They turn their fate into fairytales building a home where only they belong”

Her voice softened. “Since the moon and the darkness of night sky are eternal companions, incomplete without each other… doesn’t that make them soulmates too? Doesn’t that mean you are incomplete without me? Doesn’t that make us companions too? Doesn't that make the sky our home moon? Both yours and mine the one we create together?”

Her voice wavered again — not with fear, but with the fragile conviction of a child who has known too much pain and too little love.

"But I exist as a human even if I am called the night or light, but Moon you don't" She spoke tears falling her heart aching. “Moon, I don’t want anything from you — no Barbie stickers, no pink dresses, nor tiffin boxes — just this one thing.”

She took a breath that trembled but didn’t break.

"Couldn't you be born as a human too?" She asked. “Please turn into a human and find me. Save me. Protect me. Take me and keep me with you — as a groom, as a soulmate, as my future and only family in this world. A place where I’ll finally belong.”

Her small hands came together, fingers pressed tight in prayer, her forehead nearly touching the damp earth.

“From now on, I’ll belong to you, and you belong to me. I won’t be lonely with the fireflies; you won’t be lonely with the stars. It’ll be you and me together, side by side. So please, grant me this one wish, God — let the moon become a human and find me.”

The wind grew gentler, brushing the hair from her face. The fireflies floated closer, forming a slow, glowing halo around her. The lake shimmered faintly, reflecting the moon’s patient gaze. The whole night seemed to listen — the paddy fields swaying, the darkness holding its breath.

And then… silence.

Peaceful. Heavy. Infinite.

She lay down on the grass, the scent of wet earth and the cool of night wrapping around her like a fragile blanket. Her small hands loosened, resting beside her face. Her lashes still glistened with the last of her tears, but she wasn’t crying anymore.

Above her, the moon burned quietly — bright, steadfast, and aching.

By the time someone carried her back under the roof, she was already asleep.

When she woke to the scolding voices, she didn’t cry this time.

Because she remembered the night she prayed for the moon —

and believed it had heard her.

Her POV:

I am packing my bags, the pink soft bags of mine it's decorated with white ribbons and pearls ofcourse fake ones. I slip into my soft white cardigan over the crocheted pink dress I made myself. Today, I am about to start a new life—a new journey. Hmm I am quiet nervous but at least finally, I’m leaving Rivera. My heart feels full of hope and uncertainty.

It’s not that I dislike Rivera, my precious state where I was raised. But I have so many thorny memories here, ones I wish would disappear someday. That doesn’t mean I hate all of Rivera. It’s a small state of Inaya—a country so vast it holds one-fourth of the world’s population, its culture so diverse it feels like a miniature world of its own.

What do I even say about Rivera? It’s beautiful, even with its flaws. I love it nonetheless. I could talk about my city Gardenia all day. My state is nestled by the Sherine River, surrounded by river islands and protected by tall mountains. We are rich in culture and heritage—every step you take, you’ll find poems of patriotism, ballads of brave women, divine love stories of celestial beings, and the faint scent of rain, flowers, and of course, the river itself.

Full of nature, it’s home to uncountable protected rate species, artists—painters, singers, poets—each street humming with art. I’m proud to be from here, proud to be one of them. My eyes sting as I think of it tears flow again as my heart clenches.

“How do I leave you, Rivera?” Tears blur my vision. “Without you, what’s even my identity?”

The sun sets over the Sherine River, painting the water with orange and gold. Light shimmers on the surface, glinting in my brownish-black hair.

I was an orphan once, adopted by the Crystals when I was six. Under their roof things happened—things I don’t wish to talk about. How could I? If I did, it would only frighten people. Everyone who glimpses my darkness runs. They don’t know how to hold it. Only the Sherine River knows. The rain I’ve cried with knows. But most of all, the moon knows.

Yes—the moon knows when it all began. When the cruelest thing happened, I ran to him. The moon always because beside him who'd have patience to listen? Empathy to understand? Silence to reassure.

You’d laugh at me, wouldn’t you? I giggle through my tears. Since childhood, I’ve called the moon my groom. I’m sixteen now, yet foolish me still believes it sometimes. No, I don’t have mystical powers or anything like that—it’s just that my name, Jemisha Crystal, means Queen of the Night or Night Sky, a divine stem from a goddess of light herself.

So as a child, I believed I was the personification of the night—darkness that turns into moonlight when illuminated by him. The moon was my groom; I was his bride. Silly, isn’t it? But come on, every girl believes in fairytales. Because what would I have to depend on if not those foolish imagination?

So I believed—if I exist as a human, then the moon he must too. Somewhere out there, my human moon walks the same world. I’ve been waiting for him—the one my heart will recognize. The one who makes me feel safe, protected, loved, wanted, and cherished. The one who helps me let go of all my guards. The one whose presence feels as safe as the moon itself.

But I’m sixteen now, and I still haven’t found him.

It’s not like boys haven’t tried. Many boys trued. Some painted for me, one wrote poems, another waited for years hoping I’d look at him. But how could I? I am too afraid to hand over my recklessly bandaged bleeding heart. They'll run or abandon ones seeing it's cuts and wounds. My heart—still bleeding—couldn’t feel anything for any of them they didn't come with that safety moon exists with.

My teenage years weren’t kind. They were full of chains, thorns piercing through every step I took. My only escape was studying—so hard that I had no time to breathe, let alone look at boys. I wasn’t interested in dating anyway. I had goals, and today, I’ve achieved one.

I sit by the river as the sun dips below the horizon. Soon it will be dark. I should go. Honestly It isn’t the darkness that scares me—I’ve always felt a strange affinity to it—it’s men, and sometimes, spirits of the same species that do.

I’m a sensitive soul. I feel too much. I sense too much or maybe I am just little delusional not little though.

Anyway, back to where I was. I’ve completed high school. I gave my entrance exams and topped them. I’m going to another country now for further studies. Not because Rivera lacked anything—I simply wanted to run away. To stay away from my adoptive family. Why? I guess I will only open up to my moon someday when I meet him.

I’m headed to the Haneudal Country, Seorim City. I got admission to Haneul National University. If I keep earning good grades and scholarships, I can study there from college all the way to my PhD. I really hope I do.

My family isn’t supporting me. They think it's useless for a girl to demand so much from life. So, I’ve used all my scholarship money I got throughout my school years for flight ticket and admission in Haneul National University. I have just enough left to survive for a month. I’ll have to find a part-time job somehow to survive in Seorim.

I wish to be a songwriter I love writing poems and ballads I wish to write songs or pieces that touches people's heart people like me who have no place to belong. I also love science—so I’ll study it. Maybe I’ll become a doctor, or a researcher. I don’t know which yet. I know that a girl like me with no family or wealth I am dreaming too hight too big—but again without my dreams, I have nothing to live for.

I wipe my tears as fireflies rise around me my mystical friends they are so beautiful and magical. The river waves grow louder, as if echoing my thoughts as if Sherine is being worried for me expressing with his waves. My precious Sherine River do you know in entire Inaya Sherine river is the only river considered as a male river my best friend. I smile bitterly my tears sparkling it's hurting so bad in my chest.

“Moon, if only you had already found me… maybe I wouldn’t have to leave Rivera to find safety in an unfamiliar place.” My throat tightens. “When will it be that you'll find me?”

I sigh, and walk back with a heart so heavy it's suffocating.

The airport sits near the Sherine River. It feels like another world to me—so many people, so many security checks. I’ve spent most of my life between my room, my books, the riverbank, under the moon. Crowds make me anxious. I clutch my documents tightly as they ask for my passport and visa.

No one came to see me off. My adoptive family didn’t approve of me leaving. But I can’t be bitter. At least they gave me food and shelter for eleven years I am basically a stranger who even does that so they did a lot. I was told once that they wanted to adopt my brother from the orphanage he was called a prodigy with high IQ—but he’d already been adopted by the time they went to orphanage, so they took me instead. I was five when he was adopted. I don’t remember his face. Maybe if he were here, he’d have come to say goodbye?

The airport sits near the Sherine River. It feels like another world to me—so many people, so many security checks, so much noise. I’ve spent most of my life between my room, my books, the riverbank, and the quiet company of the moon. Crowds make me anxious. The murmur of voices feels like waves crashing against my ribs. I clutch my documents tightly as they ask for my passport and visa, my palms damp with nervous sweat.

No one came to see me off. My adoptive family didn’t approve of me leaving. But I can’t be bitter. At least they gave me food and shelter for eleven years. I’m basically a stranger to them—who even does that much? So yes, they did a lot.

I was told once that they wanted to adopt my brother from the orphanage—he was called a prodigy with a high IQ—but he’d already been adopted by the time they arrived, so they took me instead. I was five when he was adopted. I don’t remember his face. Maybe if he were here, he’d have come to say goodbye?

My heart aches sharply. I breathe out, shaking it off, pressing a hand against my chest as though I could steady the pain with my own touch.

It’s time to board. My legs tremble as I step into the line. I’ve read too many theories about Bermuda Triangles and plane crashes. Maybe that’s why I’m so scared—but maybe that’s also why I fell in love with science, to make sense of fear, to rationalize chaos.

People behind me grow impatient as I hesitate. I’m wearing a mask and a cap to hide my face—it’s easier that way. They can’t see how terrified I am.

Inside the cabin, I find my seat and try to lift my luggage, but it’s too heavy. I packed all my books, some small gifts from my school friends, pieces of home I couldn’t leave behind. My arms shake. Panic rises—until a stranger behind me reaches out and lifts it effortlessly.

It’s a man. Tall. Dressed in a black hoodie, mask, and cap. I can’t see his face, only the calm, unhurried motion of his hands.

He takes the seat beside mine. My heart races as the cabin lights dim and the flight begins to move. The hum of the engines vibrates beneath my feet. I grip the hem of my dress tightly. Cold air brushes against my skin, my stomach flips. Am I really in the sky now?

Thank God for the mask—it hides the way my lips tremble, the way my teeth bite into them to keep me from crying.

“Is it your first time flying?” he asks quietly. His English isn’t perfect, but his tone carries a warmth that feels… safe.

“Y-yeah,” I stammer, embarrassed, unable to meet his eyes.

He plugs his headphones into his phone and gently offers me one earpiece. “Try to sleep while listening,” he says. “By the time you wake, it’ll be over.”

His voice has that rare gentleness that people use when they mean no harm. Still, I freeze. What if this is a trick? What if—

Then guilt stings me for even thinking that. No stranger has ever been kind to me before. I don’t know how to receive it, how to believe it’s real.

I take the headphones, bowing slightly in thanks, my fingers trembling as they brush his. Music fills my ears—sweet, melodic voices singing in Haneul, seven harmonies weaving like lullabies of angels.

Through the small oval window, I glimpse the moon following us across the clouds. My heartbeat steadies. “In the presence of the moon,” I whisper softly, “nothing will happen to me.”

It’s that same childhood faith—fragile, foolish, but comforting.

And just as he said, I drift to sleep.

When I wake, it’s over.

There’s a soft black blanket over me. My heart skips a beat—was it him? I look around, but he’s gone. The seat beside me is empty. He’s left the blanket, the headphones, and even pulled down my suitcase.

I smile faintly, almost tearfully. Could someone this kind truly exist?

I carry the blanket and headphones with me, clutching them like treasures, hoping to find him in the airport and thank him. Without him, the three-and-a-half-hour flight would’ve ended in a panic attack.

But I never find him.

Outside the airport, the air smells different—cleaner, colder, unfamiliar. The people look nothing like Riverans. Their voices, their clothes, even their energy—it’s all foreign. My stomach twists. How will I survive here?

Still, I’m hopeful. I’m free from the Crystals now. For the first time, the world feels vast and frightening, but it’s mine.

I sigh, taking one last look around, but the masked boy is nowhere. Disappointment tugs softly at my chest. I didn’t even get to thank him.

It’s midnight in Seorim City. The taxi ride feels endless, the neon lights blurring past like streams of melted colors. Exhaustion seeps into my bones. I’ve slept on the plane, yet my eyelids grow unbearably heavy. I rub them, trying to fight it, but my vision blurs.

“Wait… this doesn’t feel right…” I try to speak, but my voice fades into the hum of the car.

The world spins into blackness before I can finish the sentence.

And I don’t know where I’m being taken.

She grunts in pain, feeling suffocated.

A sharp ache pierces the back of her head, her lungs refusing to fill. The air around her feels thick — heavy with rust and something sour that burns her throat. She slowly tries to open her eyes, her head dizzy, her vision blurry. Every blink feels like dragging glass across her eyelids. She feels weak — her body foreign, her limbs unresponsive — and by the time she opens her eyes, shivers run down her blood, almost making her breath uneven.

She looks around, panicking.

The space around her looks like a warehouse — the kind she’s only seen in movies. Metal drums stacked crookedly, shadows spilling between them. The scent of iron and oil stings her nose. The walls are made of tin, rusted all over, water dripping from a hole somewhere above her. The cold ground beneath her is wet and gritty, like it’s soaked in rainwater and dust.

Her hands are tied.

Her cardigan is gone.

She’s only wearing her pink frock and socks — her shoes are gone too.

She gulps, looking around desperately.

“Where—where am I?” she spoke in Riveran, gulping in fear and panic.

Her voice trembles, swallowed by the echo of emptiness. It doesn’t take long for her to realize that she is indeed kidnapped — the ropes biting into her skin say it, the darkness confirms it. Her chest pounds in shock, panic, and fear.

She was warned — not once but many times — by her teachers out of concern, and by her adoptive family out of bitterness, because they were never truly concerned about her. They told her big cities like Seorim are not as black and white as they look in the dramas she used to watch. Big cities hide darker things — shadows behind their bright lights. Going there alone could be dangerous. But what could she do? Living in that family wasn’t any safer either.

Still, she didn’t expect the darkness to pierce its claws into her skin on the very first day.

She looks around, scared and thinking how to escape, but she suddenly hears the sound of footsteps — men’s voices — approaching. Her stomach twists. Her heart jumps into her throat. She panics, quickly going back to her sleeping position, forcing her body to go still, pretending she’s unconscious.

It’s something she’s done before — a survival reflex — to act as if nothing happened, as if she’s asleep, because sometimes pretending you don’t exist is the only way to survive cruelty.

> “The boss liked this bitch,” one man spoke in Handeul.

Jemisha understood a little, though she couldn’t speak fluently yet. She’d spent years learning their language before coming.

> “So you’re telling me we’re not selling her?” another guy — slightly younger, sharper in tone — said, sounding shocked.

“Boss said there shouldn’t be a single scratch on her body.”

The older one’s voice carried authority — rough, tired.

> “I wanted to taste her so bad. She’s one hell of a beautiful little girl.”

Jemisha’s stomach twisted in disgust, but she wasn’t surprised. She expected it. She’d seen the way men’s eyes shifted when they saw someone vulnerable — how they confused cruelty for power.

> “So she’s completely off limits? Only for the boss, huh?” the younger one asked, disappointed.

“Yeah. Go untie her. If those ropes make bruises, our hands will be cut off,” the older one ordered, sounding irritated.

Their words felt unreal — like blades dipped in rot.

> “I don’t understand boss. He’s young, sure, but business is business. If we start bringing him every beautiful girl we capture, who will we sell? We’ll run out of business,” the younger one complained, approaching Jemisha.

Jemisha’s heart pounded violently in fear, but she kept her breathing shallow, acting unconscious. The smell of their sweat and cigarettes filled the air. One of them pulled out a knife — the sound of the blade scraping made her flinch inside.

> “Shut up. You just wanna touch and savor her. Don’t make useless remarks. You don’t care about the business. Boss is so rich his hundred upcoming generations would bathe in gold even if they stop running the companies,” the older man said.

> “I saw his eyes when he saw her. He’s mesmerized by her,” the younger muttered, his voice tightening.

“With a face and body like this, anyone would…”

The younger one’s knife slipped, leaving a small cut on Jemisha’s hand. She hissed softly, pain burning her wrist, but she bit her lip, forcing herself silent. She used every ounce of patience to stay still, because she knew a cruel truth — that consciousness makes monsters hungrier.

Men enjoy playing predator on the ones who look awake enough to fear them.

The older man panicked.

> “You fucker! What did you do? There’s a cut — are you crazy? Boss will kill us!” he yelled, punching the other guy.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

“This bitch!” the younger one snapped, slapping Jemisha across the face — though she stayed limp, motionless.

> “How dare you touch her, fucker—” the older one shouted, slapping him again.

“Go get some kind of ointment or bandage, garbage. If it leaves a scar, we’re done.”

> “We can just say she got hurt by herself. You’re panicking too much,” the younger groaned, angry.

“You think Boss — the living devil — wouldn’t understand the difference between a knife cut and an accidental scratch?” the older one hissed.

The younger cursed under his breath, storming out of the warehouse to get bandages. The older man muttered, pacing.

> “The drug really had a long-lasting effect. She’s still unconscious.”

He sounded half impressed, half uneasy.

Jemisha stayed still. Every second stretched like hours. Her face stung from the slap; her wrists throbbed from the rope burns. She could hear the faint rasp of a lighter — the older man stepping outside, taking a drag from his cigarette. The smell of smoke crept in through the cracks.

Finally, she opened her eyes.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. The ropes were loose now — half-cut. The door wasn’t locked. But that meant he was standing right outside. If she moved, if the hinges creaked, if he turned — it would be over.

Her mind screamed, but her body decided.

Now or never.

She didn’t fear death — but she wanted it to arrive with dignity, not like this.

Without thinking, she pushed the door open. The metal shrieked. The man’s shadow shifted — his eyes went wide.

And Jemisha ran.

Her bare feet hit the cold ground — splashing in puddles, scraping against broken concrete. She didn’t care. The pain was nothing compared to the sound of him shouting behind her.

> “Don’t fight! I’m ordered not to hurt you, bitch!”

He grabbed her wrist. She screamed — not loud, but primal — and her fingers found a rock. She swung it with everything she had, hitting his arm. He shouted, released her.

She didn’t look back.

She ran.

The street was half-lit, cracked and uneven. The air smelled of rain and rust. The sky was trembling — thick clouds swallowing the moon. Thunder cracked, loud enough to shake her ribs.

She was terrified of thunder. Always had been. But tonight, she didn’t care. The fear of being caught outweighed every other terror.

The wind howled. Leaves whipped against her legs. Her eyes stung from the sand and rain, her vision blurring. The rough cement tore her socks apart, cutting into her feet, blood mixing with the mud.

Still, she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Her heart screamed against her ribs, her breaths ragged, desperate.

“Moon…” she whispered, voice breaking, almost pleading.

Because she believed — no matter how dark the sky — the Moon was always there. Hidden maybe, but there. It had been there yesterday, watching from her airplane window.

“It can’t be gone tonight…” she thought. “Right?”

But the sky was empty.

“It is not Amavasya right?” she remembered.

Her foolish heart had believed that no one could hurt her under the Moon’s light. But tonight, there was none.

Her throat tightened, strangled by panic.

“Is this how my story ends, Moon?” she thought, half-running, half-stumbling.

“So you really didn’t exist?”

“It was all my foolish delusion?”

Her voice cracked into the storm. Thunder roared back. The rain grew heavier. Her legs trembled, her body near collapse, yet she pushed forward—

Until her head hit something solid.

Something warm.

Something human.

---

The End.