For exactly one thousand years, the Moon had not taken a single night off.
He shone through storms. He shone through summer heat. He shone over wars and weddings, over crying babies and old men sitting quietly on porches.
But one night — a perfectly ordinary Tuesday — the Moon decided he was tired.
He dimmed his light, wrapped himself in cloud, and rested.
The world below went very dark.
People stepped outside and looked up. Just stars — cold and faraway and bright, but not the same.
Dogs were unsettled. Foxes stayed close to the trees. Children asked their parents where the moon had gone.
"He'll be back," said the parents, though they weren't completely sure.
By midnight, the Moon felt better. He came back out from behind his cloud, a little guilty, a little refreshed.
He had been away for three hours. It had felt like a long time to everyone.
He shone a little more warmly than usual for the rest of the night, by way of apology.
In the morning, nobody remembered quite what had felt wrong. They just knew they were glad the night was over.