Her elbows pressed into the earth beneath her. The night was clear, the wind soft, the air just warm enough to keep the goosebumps at bay. It worried at her hair, twirling her blonde ringlets until they tickled her ear.
She flinched and swatted at the peach fuzz along her lobe, exhaling like she’d been caught listening to a secret.
It felt like the elements were trying to tell her something. Something special. Something meant only for her.
She lowered her face until her eyes hovered just above the tips of grass. Twilight dew began to settle, beading on clover like tiny glass marbles. And there—half hidden in the patch—was the smooth curvature of a wing.
A moth.
Not the delicate kind that dusted porch lights and died politely. This one was big. Bold. Darkly embellished, as if it had been painted for night.
She smiled. She admired his adventurous spirit. She loved laying in the clover too—cool, soft, calming. It was where she nestled herself every night.
Her parents didn’t know, of course.
She sat back, easing pressure from her knees, now powdered with dirt. Slowly, she extended her right arm. Her index finger stretched out, her hand quivering—not from fear, but anticipation.
She wanted the moth.
He fluttered around the clover patch, almost mocking her. Her gaze followed him, eyes twinkling in the twilight, attention dancing in rhythm with his wings. Her arm began to fatigue, and she lowered it just as he landed again.
“Huh,” she breathed.
Missed him.
This was the third night she’d seen the moth. And she was determined not to let him get away.
Not again.
Just as he started to open himself—those dark wings cresting toward the sky—she snatched him.
“Whoa,” she whispered, pinning the creature between her thumb and forefinger. Mud smudged under a snag in her nail. One wing flailed, frantic. The other trembled, slowing.
But she just watched. Perched on her heels, head tilting from side to side with that signature, childlike wonderment.
“I wonder if you’d like to go home with me,” she pleaded, eyes wide, as if begging for permission.
She stared at him for nearly five minutes. As if the moth might speak in tongues.
“Come on, Mr. Moth,” she murmured. “You’re tired. Just look at your wings.”
***
She sat there, breathing through her nose, mud slathered across her mouth and chin. She held the two wings protectively in her left hand. They rested on her lap as if they were the only thing that mattered.
She looked down at her palm and slowly uncurled her little fingers. They were slightly damp—not from dew, but from adrenaline.
Then she reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small jewelry box.
It was warm from her body.
She set it in the clover like an offering. Then, she hooked a fingertip under the tiny gold latch. She lifted the lid.
Inside, velvet.
Meticulous in her efforts, she dropped the wings into the box.
They landed on another pair.
But those wings were different. Not gray swirls with silver tinges meant for night. These were bright—wings meant for daytime. A light blue that looked almost impossible down here in the dark.
“Goodnight,” she whispered to the box.
And she closed the lid.
It clicked shut like a promise.
