this is a story
that I heard
a while ago
but it is not
about dragons,
poisoned apples,
or even a strange creature.
It's about a little star
that fell from the ceiling
one night
in the Land of Nowhere.
Some called it
"the Child of the Moon,"
who grew
between
stories, dreams,
and free will.
But in the Land of Nowhere,
those things were forbidden,
because some of us love control,
fear,
and losing hope.
But no one was brave enough
to say something.
Yeah,
too much like nowadays.
Should I go back to the story?
Because this emptiness
feels strange.
And the Child of the Moon
had a name,
but most of them
called them Hero,
a special name,
if you ask me.
And as I said,
Hero had dreams
and loved stories,
and they wanted
to share stories
with the rest of the world.
And this became a purpose:
to tell tales.
At first, people were scared of
what those things were,
but slowly,
they became curious.
And the stories
scattered across the whole land
until they arrived
at the kingdom.
But stories are dangerous things.
The kingdom knew that
better than anyone.
A story can make
a child ask questions,
dream of something more,
remind a soul
that it is not alone.
The King did not like wondering.
Neither did the council.
And when whispers reached
the people,
they listened.
Not with curiosity.
With fear.
And they began to fear
what stories could do:
make you think,
question,
hope.
Hero knew none of this,
continuing to travel
from village to village,
collecting dreams,
sharing legends,
teaching people
how to imagine.
Until one day,
a letter arrived
with a royal carriage.
And for the first time,
Hero wondered
if stories
could be hunted.
It ended faster
than a blink,
sent back
to where
the Child of the Moon
belonged.
But every story
they had told
left a fingerprint
on every soul
that heard it.
Or perhaps
more than one.
Lighting new paths
and giving them names.
But I'll never know.
Because I am
a story too.
And I don't know
if I'll ever
have a name
1d ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 3:54 AM UTC
this is a story
that I heard
a while ago
but it is not
about dragons,
poisoned apples,
or even a strange creature.
It's about a little star
that fell from the ceiling
one night
in the Land of Nowhere.
Some called it
"the Child of the Moon,"
who grew
between
stories, dreams,
and free will.
But in the Land of Nowhere,
those things were forbidden,
because some of us love control,
fear,
and losing hope.
But no one was brave enough
to say something.
Yeah,
too much like nowadays.
Should I go back to the story?
Because this emptiness
feels strange.
And the Child of the Moon
had a name,
but most of them
called them Hero,
a special name,
if you ask me.
And as I said,
Hero had dreams
and loved stories,
and they wanted
to share stories
with the rest of the world.
And this became a purpose:
to tell tales.
At first, people were scared of
what those things were,
but slowly,
they became curious.
And the stories
scattered across the whole land
until they arrived
at the kingdom.
But stories are dangerous things.
The kingdom knew that
better than anyone.
A story can make
a child ask questions,
dream of something more,
remind a soul
that it is not alone.
The King did not like wondering.
Neither did the council.
And when whispers reached
the people,
they listened.
Not with curiosity.
With fear.
And they began to fear
what stories could do:
make you think,
question,
hope.
Hero knew none of this,
continuing to travel
from village to village,
collecting dreams,
sharing legends,
teaching people
how to imagine.
Until one day,
a letter arrived
with a royal carriage.
And for the first time,
Hero wondered
if stories
could be hunted.
It ended faster
than a blink,
sent back
to where
the Child of the Moon
belonged.
But every story
they had told
left a fingerprint
on every soul
that heard it.
Or perhaps
more than one.
Lighting new paths
and giving them names.
But I'll never know.
Because I am
a story too.
And I don't know
if I'll ever
have a name
