The Tower in the Moon's Eye

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The Tower in the Moon's Eye
When the moon is so bright that even the shadows blink, a solitary tower shines in a remote valley—tall, slender, with a red roof like a whispering exclamation mark against the night's blue.
They say the tower is empty. But that's not quite true. For it dreams.
Its stones remember every word ever spoken within it. Laughter in ancient languages. Footsteps that never returned. And a song heard only at full moon—played by no instrument, but woven from the air itself.
The river that flows at its feet knows of it. It murmurs it into the roots of the firs and on into the heart of the mountains. And sometimes—very rarely—someone follows that murmuring. A wanderer with open ears. A seeker. An animal with a backpack full of questions.
When they reach the tower, it is silent. No door, no light, no call. Only the ticking of the night and the silvery gaze of the moon. But whoever dares to simply sit down, not to call, not to demand – only to listen – will hear it.
A breath of stone.
A whisper from cracks in the wall.
A heartbeat deep within the tower's spire.
And when they then look at the moon, it happens: The tower blinks back.
Because what sleeps doesn't mean it isn't waiting.
And what wakes isn't always alone.
Sometimes a place chooses someone willing to remember it.