moth

moths come out at night and go to the light, and which light it is decides which moth turns up. torches and lanterns draw the common dusty kind. candles call the ember moths, small and warm. soul fire calls the pale ones. nothing here fights, drops, or breeds — it is only that a lit lamp at night stops being empty.

stand near a lamp and keep still — no walking, no swinging — and a moth working that light will eventually land on you. it stays while you're quiet, and remembers you after, drifting faintly behind you for a day.

a dusty moth that basks long enough in candlelight turns ember; long enough at soul light, pale. an attuned moth doesn't despawn, so the one that found your porch is the one still there tomorrow.

and a dusty moth has a season — one moon, eight nights. on its last night it goes to the light it knows and keeps still beside it until morning; at first light it is gone. one ash particle, no sound, nothing dropped. attunement is what grants permanence, and it can happen even then: a moth kept company by a candle through its vigil turns, and stays. everything else is passing — the one that chose you stays.