The Boy Who Waited for the Moon

Every night,
he climbed the hill.

Not to wish.
Not to cry.
Just to wait.

The moon,
they said,
had moved on.

But he hadn’t.

He carried
an old coat,
a quiet smile,
and a name
only he remembered.

No one believed him
that the sky
once spoke,
that stars
used to listen.

But he remembered
her voice
like music
inside the silence.

He waited.
Not for magic
but for the moment
when memory
outshines
absence.

And one night,
the moon came back
just a sliver,
just a whisper.

It didn’t say much.
Just glowed
the way
her goodbye did.

And that was enough
to keep waiting.

Enough
to light his tired eyes.
Enough
to hold his breath again.
Because even silence,
when remembered right,
can sound
like love returning home

He sat beneath the stars,
hands open to the wind,
hoping the next breath
carried her name
softly,
like the night
carries forgotten dreams.