A moth's wings quiver,
Dust falls on the wooden desk,
The light bulb flickers.
About the Creator
The Night Writer 🌙
Moonlight is my ink, and the silence of 3 AM is my canvas. As The Night Writer, I turn the world's whispers into stories while you sleep. Dive into the shadows with me on Vocal. 🌙✨
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More stories from The Night Writer 🌙 and writers in Poets and other communities.
When the Shelter Closes
Across the street from my house, a man slept under a tree, his dog by his side. My first, naive thought: he must be traveling through. But he kept coming back, often sleeping there during the day. Then it hit me—that person might not have a home.
By Bride of Sound5 days ago in Humans
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