It slips down past the rooftops, past the sleeping piers, and lowers itself gently into the water — rippling silver across midnight blue, learning to drift instead of shine.
No clocks down here. No calendars. Only the slow pulse of the tide, rocking it like a lullaby it never knew it needed.
The waves teach it a new rhythm. No more pulling tides from a distance. Just floating, folding, becoming liquid light.
The moon, finally weightless, finally learning to swim.
