There’s something about the full moon that has always felt personal to me—like a quiet secret the night keeps for those who pause long enough to listen. Its glow, its stillness, its impossible closeness… every time the clouds drift away, a story begins to form across its bright surface.
When the moon is full and the sky is clear, I see him—a man in a black tailcoat and tall top hat, his posture relaxed, his expression gentle and joyful. Black leather gloves wrap around the reins he holds, and polished black riding boots rest lightly on the curved edge of his wooden rocking chair.
The chair floats as if born from moonlight itself, pulled through the sky by five luminous white swans. Their wings catch the silver glow, each feather outlined softly against the deep blue night. They glide—not hurriedly, not heavily, but with the quiet certainty of beings who know only calm.
There is no sound, not from the swans, not from the chair, not from the man. It is the kind of silence that feels alive.
And I am not standing beneath him.
I am floating.
The night somehow lifts me—dress billowing, bare feet weightless, hair drifting behind me like a soft trail of smoke. I reach toward him without thinking, my hand stretching into the cool air between us. Though I know I can’t touch him, the reaching itself feels necessary… as if some part of me belongs in that space between moonlight and motion.
He never looks back. Not in refusal, but in a serene sort of knowing—like he understands that I will always rise toward him, and he will always glide ahead, carrying something mysterious and kind.
By morning, the moon fades into its soft, pale retreat. I wake with its light still brushing my cheek, lingering as if it stayed a little longer just for me. I no longer try to explain any of it. Some things are not meant to be solved; they are meant to be witnessed.
Last night, under the full moon’s bright breath, he returned. The swans curved across the sky like white strokes of a dream, and he followed—steady, joyful, glowing softly against the moon.
Maybe he is a vision, maybe a memory I’ve forgotten, maybe a story the night writes only for me. But every time he appears, I feel a quiet peace settle inside me—the kind that doesn’t demand answers, only presence.
The moon calls differently to everyone.
For me, it calls like this—
a story without words,
a moment without reason,
a reminder that wonder still lives quietly in the night sky.
And in its light, I find a gentle kind of self-soothing—
a place where imagination and calm meet,
and for a little while, the whole world feels steady again.