Fallen Crescent

Mara should have gone home when the last lantern burned out, but she stayed in the courtyard, leaning against the cold stone well and watching the sky. The moon had dipped lower than usual, caught for a moment between the rooftops as if it had misjudged its own path. It hung there long enough for her to think it might not move again.

She reached up without thinking. The air felt different, heavier, like water before a storm. When her fingers closed, something gave — not the moon itself, but a small part of it, a thin curve that came loose as easily as a thread pulled from fabric. It did not burn or shine. It rested in her palm with a dull weight, already cooling.

By the time the bells rang for morning, Mara had worked it into something that would hold. The chain sits firm, each link set tight so nothing slips free again. Only the crescent moves, just slightly, when the body shifts — a remnant of that moment between rooftops, when the sky came within reach and did not quite keep everything it should have.