Legend XCVIII – The Story of Peter's Moon Journey

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On that night when the moon was so low that its light seemed like a soft voice, Peter's journey began not with a step, but with a listening. The window of his room was open, but no wind entered, only a gentle shimmer that settled over the furniture and walls, softly blurring the boundaries of everything familiar. The shadows lost their sharpness, as if they had decided to be friendly, and time itself seemed to breathe more slowly. Peter lay awake, not knowing why, yet sensing that something was waiting for him. From the moonlight, a figure took shape, old and dignified, with a long white beard and a gaze that had seen more nights than words could express. He carried a heavy book with him, its cover as if sprinkled with stardust, and when he opened it, it was as if the heavens themselves were listening. His voice was calm, not didactic, but inviting, and it spoke of paths one finds only when one is not searching, of courage that does not shout, and of journeys that begin as soon as one is ready to see the world differently. As he read, the bed beneath Peter began to loosen, not abruptly, but gently, carried by clouds that slipped beneath it like protective hands. The room receded, became small, and the sky opened to a vast, dark sea where stars shimmered like slow thoughts. The moon drew nearer, losing its distance and becoming a place, a crescent of warm light, adorned with golden stars from whose tips liquid radiance dripped. Without fear, Peter lay down within it, safe as in a cradle, and around him fluttered butterflies of light, their wingbeats sounding as if they were rearranging time. Beneath them lay the earth, asleep and still, yet not lost, but waiting, and Peterchen sensed that this journey was not about leaving, but about understanding. The old man continued reading, and with each page the moon seemed to grow brighter, as if storing the stories within it. They were tales of lost things that were found again, of little beings who grew larger than they believed, and of nights when children realized that wonder is a form of strength. Time stretched, became transparent, and Peterchen no longer knew how long they had been there, only that it was right. The stars hung around them like quiet promises, and even the silence had weight. Deep inside, Peterchen understood that every homecoming is part of the journey and that one can only return if one has been willing to leave. When the book finally closed, it did so without end, without farewell, as if the story had decided to live on. The moon slowly began to detach itself from the sky, finding its place among the stars, and the clouds gently carried Peter back.