"Do you remember the stories grandmother used to tell?" he asked, his words floating like tea leaves in a gilded haze.
"Stories of other days when the moon was more than a celestial tourist."
"I remember. I think they wished they were just shadows. Wait—do you see it too?"
The flickering shadows, whispering secrets bold and strange.
As we sat on our splintered bench, the glow of overlooked street lamps danced around us like ghosts at carnival.
Head down the forgotten lane.
An old man once told me, between toothy, mechanical grins—"It's when the moon peels a silver apple on Wednesday."
I merely nodded, as understanding was not the currency of our exchange.
It was the hour for inevitable truths, when every reflective surface held its breath, waiting for a story of its own.
Step softly across that mire where stories spin and quest forth.
Will you journey on reflections?