adamdgragg

Marisol had never seen the moon. It was long gone by the time she was born—nothing more than a memory fading into myth. Her parents had shown her pictures in ancient books filled with facts about it. According to legend, centuries ago, humanity had stepped on its surface, leaving footprints in its dust. She found that interesting enough, but what really drew her attention were the myths—the stories ancient humans created, sometimes with such conviction they were willing to die for them. Some said the moon was a beacon, lighting a traveler's way in the dark. Others called it a goddess, watching over the earth and protecting those who prayed to her. In most stories, the moon was a guardian. But whatever protection it offered was long gone now. All that remained were fractured arcs of dust circling the earth, forming ghostly rings. They bathed the night in a faint silver light that spread across the world like a smirk. They'd done nothing to protect her. Perhaps the moon had lost all its