The Gate of the Moon River

More about The Gate of the Moon River

It is said that where the mountains touch the sky and no wind dares to disturb the path, there stands a gate that leads not into a world, but out of it. It lies hidden in a gorge whose stones were formed by the River of the Moon—a stream of silver water that flows only on nights of full light. No one has seen its source, and whoever follows its course finds the gate at its end: ancient, of bronze and basalt, with markings that even the gods have forgotten. People call it the Gate of the Moon River, and they believe it to be the point where memory passes into eternity. Some claim that beyond it begins the land of silent hours, where all missed moments reside; others say it leads only to the heart of one's own truth—and whoever passes through hears the echo of their last thought. One night, a woman came there whose name had long since fallen from the books. She carried a lantern whose light burned not with fire, but with longing. Within her glowed shadows—faces, places, moments never fully lived. She was not a pilgrim, not a seeker, just someone who no longer knew where she belonged. The river carried her, gently as memory, persistently as guilt. When she saw the gate, she stopped. The moon hung large over the mountains, and the water reflected it so clearly that it seemed as if light were flowing down from the sky. The gate was massive, with decorations of golden lettering that flickered as if they were breathing. Around its threshold stood dozens of candles, their flames barely moving. She knew no one had lit them. She stepped closer and placed her hand on the metal. It was warm—not like stone, but like skin. Then she heard voices. At first whispering, then clearer. They were not words, but memories telling themselves: a laugh that had never faded; a promise never kept; a glance never returned. Everything she had lost spoke to her, and everything she wanted to forget fell silent. Tears welled in her eyes, and the lantern light flickered as if bowing. "Am I too late?" she asked into the silence. But the gate did not answer. Instead, the water began to rise, slowly, silently, and the flames reflected in it until it seemed as if the river itself were ablaze. She understood that the gate was not an entrance, but a threshold. Whoever found it had already chosen. For the gate did not open to let anyone in—it opened to let go of what could no longer be borne. So she placed her lantern on the stone, knelt down, and put her hand over her heart. The light from the lantern went out, but the moon remained. In the morning, only the gate, the silent candles, and the whispering of the water were found.