The Man in The Telescope and The Moon's Harpist

The Man in the Telescope

            Once upon a time, on a planet barely larger than himself, lived a man who spent his days and nights by his telescope. From his perch, he gazed at distant stars and planets far beyond his own, visible only through the lens of his telescope. His clothes, worn thin and full of holes, bore the marks of the moths that lived with him. They chewed at the fabric, circling him constantly, eating whatever they could find but never once harming him. The moths had even devoured one of the wheels of his rolling chair, leaving it motionless. But still, the man sat in it for hours on end, his eyes locked on the endless sky.

            The moths, his only companions, fluttered around him in aimless patterns, occasionally brushing against his skin as he sat in the quiet. At night, they would drop from the sky like falling leaves, resting where they fell, only to rise again in the morning to continue their strange dance. The man never scolded them for their habits; their soft, silent presence was a comfort to him.

            On the opposite side of his small planet lived a mole, one who never left his hole. The mole could always sense when the man had a question, calling him over from across the distance. And each time, the man would come, listening to the pile of dirt that spoke with the wisdom of someone who had never needed to see the stars to know them.

            One evening, while peering through his telescope, the man saw something that made him pause. Far away on Earth, atop a solitary mountain, stood a young girl. She swayed gently as she played a harp, her fingers dancing across the strings, and her voice, though distant, seemed to reach toward the heavens. At first, the man thought he couldn't hear her, but the longer he watched, the more he realized he could. A soft, ethereal melody filled the space around him, though he wasn't sure if it was his ears straining to match the vision or if her song was simply that far-reaching.

            He watched her for a long time. So long, in fact, that he didn't notice the moths falling and waking three times—three days had passed. Puzzled, the man leaned back from the telescope. Why had the girl been singing for three days straight? His curiosity ended up stirring the mole, who soon called out to him, muffled but clear from the other side of the planet.

            "I know you have a question," the mole said, his voice rumbling through the earth.

            "What is it this time?" The man made his way to the mole's hole, sitting beside the mound of dirt.

            "Why is she still singing?" he asked.

            "She sings for the moon," replied the mole.

            "And where has the moon gone?"

            "Sometimes, he loses himself among the stars."

            "How long does it take to bring him back?" The mole's answer was slow, deliberate.

            "She can't bring him back, not this time."

            "Then why does she keep singing?" The man pressed.

            "Because she was chosen." The mole explained.

            "There are times when the moon drifts too far, lost in the vastness of the sky, and her song calls him home. But this time the moon has not lost himself, he is no longer up here." The man frowned, his heart sinking.

            "How long has she been singing?"

            "Since the moon vanished." The mole replied.

            "When did he vanish?" The mole did not respond, and the man took it as answer enough.

            That answer weighed heavily on the man's chest as he returned to his telescope. He looked again at the girl, now feeling a deep sadness for her endless serenade to a moon that would never hear her song. He turned the telescope away, hoping to focus on something else, but no matter where he looked, the soft melody followed him. The gentle strumming of the harp, the distant, high notes of her voice, they lingered, filling every corner of his world.

            The moths seemed to sense his sadness. They drooped in the air, their fluttering slowing, until one by one they fell to the ground for their rest. But the next day, they did not rise. The man, confused, looked down and saw that the moths had all wrapped themselves in cocoons. As he watched, one cocoon began to stir, and from it emerged a beautiful purple butterfly. Without hesitation, the butterfly spread its delicate wings and flew away from the man, leaving the planet.

            Startled, the man watched it go, his eyes following it as far as they could. Quickly, he adjusted his telescope, scanning the skies for the butterfly's destination. And there, on Earth, he found it, landing on the shoulder of the harpist.

            The girl stopped playing, her fingers frozen on the strings as she stared at the butterfly. It circled her once, twice, then began to drift away, as if guiding her. Slowly, she lowered her harp and, with hesitant steps, began to follow.

            The man, still gazing through his telescope, could only watch in wonder. The butterfly had gone of it's own will, but somehow, he knew they were leading her away, perhaps to finally free her from her endless song. 

            The End, for now

                        Thank You, for reading

                                    A Tale of The Man in the Telescope