The Moon’s Forgotten Keeper

The Forgotten Moon Keeper

Long ago, when the world was still young and the skies were closer to the earth, there was a Moon Keeper—a solitary figure whose sacred duty was to tend the moon. Her name was Selia, and she lived atop a mountain so high it pierced the clouds, where a small, crystal lake reflected the heavens like a mirror. From this lake, Selia drew the moon’s light, polishing its surface with waters infused with starlight. She repaired its cracks, soothed its weary glow, and ensured it stayed on its celestial path, guiding tides and dreams alike.

The Moon’s Forgotten Keeper.

The moon was not just a celestial body but a living entity. It pulsed softly under Selia’s touch, a silver heart in the vastness of the cosmos. She had been chosen for her patience, her unwavering devotion, and her willingness to sacrifice the comforts of mortal life for the eternal vigil. She was the Moon Keeper, and the moon was her charge.

Centuries passed, and the world below grew restless. Humanity, curious and defiant, began to explore the mysteries of the cosmos. They charted stars, built great towers of stone and glass, and eventually fashioned machines that touched the heavens. They no longer prayed to the moon for guidance or whispered wishes into its light. They saw it not as a guardian, but as a lifeless rock.

The moon began to dim.

Selia watched from her mountaintop as the moon’s glow faltered. It no longer hummed with vitality beneath her fingers. Cracks appeared in its surface that her waters could not mend. She called out to the stars, to the spirits of the cosmos, begging for guidance, but no answer came. The moon, once so radiant, was fading, and with it, the balance of the world.

One evening, as Selia sat by the crystal lake, she noticed something she had not seen in all her years as the Moon Keeper: her own reflection. The water, usually alive with the glow of the moon, now mirrored her face, weary and aged. She realized then that she was no longer immortal. The bond between her and the moon was breaking. If the moon was forgotten, so too was she.

Determined to save the moon, Selia descended from her mountain for the first time in centuries. She walked through forests where her name was no longer sung, through villages where the moon was just a pale ornament in the night sky. She whispered to the dreamers, the poets, the sailors who once relied on the moon’s light, urging them to remember.

But the world had moved on. Cities of steel and light stretched to the horizon, their artificial brilliance drowning out the moon’s gentle glow. People no longer looked to the skies; their eyes were fixed on glowing screens and endless roads. Selia’s pleas fell on deaf ears. She was a relic of a forgotten time, a stranger with stories no one cared to hear.

Despairing, Selia returned to her mountain. The moon hung low and dim, a dying ember in the vast darkness. Selia knelt by the crystal lake, her tears rippling its surface. “I have failed you,” she whispered. “The world no longer remembers.”

The moon pulsed faintly in response, a weak rhythm that mirrored her own heart. And then, as the last light of the moon seemed ready to fade, a voice, soft and ancient, filled the air.

“They may not remember me, but you do.”

Selia looked up, startled. The moon, for the first time, spoke to her. Its voice was neither male nor female, neither loud nor soft—it was a presence, as vast and unyielding as the night sky.

“I have seen the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of stars. I am more than their memory. I am their dreams, their tides, their light in the darkest hours. And you, Selia, are my keeper. Not theirs.”

Selia’s tears stopped. The moon’s light, faint as it was, reflected in her eyes. She realized then that the moon did not need the world’s adoration. It needed only her care, her belief, her devotion.

With renewed purpose, Selia returned to her work. She drew from the lake, now dark but still deep, and polished the moon’s surface. She sang to it, soft and wordless melodies that carried her love and sorrow. She gathered shards of light from the stars and patched the moon’s cracks, piece by piece. The work was slow, agonizingly so, but the moon began to heal.

As the years passed, Selia became one with her charge. Her body grew frail, her hair turned silver, and her voice grew softer, until one night, under a newly brightened moon, she disappeared entirely. The moon shone brilliantly that night, its light spreading across the world like a blanket of silver, as if in thanks.

Centuries later, travelers who braved the mountain’s treacherous peaks spoke of a strange phenomenon. At the summit, where the air was thin and the stars seemed close enough to touch, there was a lake that glowed softly in the moonlight. Its waters were said to hum with an ancient song, one that filled the heart with both longing and peace.

The travelers called it the Lake of the Forgotten Keeper, though none knew her name or her story. But on nights when the moon was full and bright, they claimed to see a figure in the reflection—a woman with silver hair and eyes that carried the light of a thousand stars.

And so, though Selia was forgotten by the world, her legacy endured. The moon shone on, a beacon of hope in the darkness, tended eternally by the memory of the one who had loved it enough to give it her all.