Bound to the moon
The Moon Festival was never meant for people like me.
All around the clearing, wolves danced and laughed, their faces painted with silver crescents, clothes glowing with threads woven under moonlight. Lanterns floated overhead, their warm gold light casting shifting shadows on the stones below. The ancient pines swayed, whispering old prayers to the Moon Goddess.
I stood at the edge of it all, half-hidden beneath the gnarled limbs of a hollow pine. My hands were clenched inside the sleeves of my simple robe—undyed, unadorned. I wasn’t dressed to be seen.
Bab Populer