The Moth and the Streetlight

She was born beneath a streetlight, its hum her lullaby.

The air smelled of rain and rust; the ground glittered faintly with forgotten glass. To her, the city was endless—a maze of shadows pierced by the golden halo that never slept.

Each night she rose, drawn to its glow. The warmth felt like promise, like purpose. She didn’t question it. She only circled closer, dazzled by what she thought was the heart of the world.

The light spoke in whispers—a language of warmth and pull.

Come closer, it said. You belong to brightness.

So she obeyed. Again and again. Her wings grew frayed, dusted with soot. Still, she believed. For what else was there in the dark but this steady shimmer calling her home?

One night, the bulb flickered—and went out.

The silence that followed was thick, almost holy. The streets stretched long and empty, bathed in the silver breath of the moon. The moth hovered in confusion, her reflection gone from the puddle below. She felt small, unanchored.

Then, she saw something she had never seen before.

Beyond the street’s end, beyond the human ruin, beyond the poles and wires and glass—stars. Countless, shimmering stars. They didn’t hum. They didn’t pull. They simply were.

She lifted her wings and followed.

Past rooftops softened by moss, past the curling smoke of night fires long gone, past all she had known. Her flight was clumsy, unlearned. She had spent her life circling one light; now, she flew toward a thousand.

The wind carried her higher. The world below blurred into a quiet tapestry—wildflowers blooming through cracks in pavement, foxes nesting in empty lots, ivy swallowing glass and steel. The city was healing in secret, unseen by those who once ruled it.

At dawn, she rested on a vine of morning glories spilling over a broken window. The petals opened with the first touch of sun, pale and pure. She brushed against them gently, and they welcomed her with the softness of something new.

For the first time, the light that touched her wings did not burn.

And as the city exhaled beneath her, alive in ways it had forgotten, the moth whispered a small vow only the flowers could hear:

“Not all light blinds. Some light grows.”

The breeze carried her whisper across the ruins, where seeds waited in silence for their turn to wake.