A Road for the Moon

Oliver’s boot broke through the crust of the ridge path, and the stones beneath it slid toward the drop.

He threw himself forward. His pack struck the ground, his palms scraped rock, and the loose stones went tumbling out of sight. For a moment, he heard them falling. Then the wind took the sound.

Rose crouched beside him, clutching the silver child’s hand. “Can you get up?”

“I’m up.” Oliver tested the ground with his heel before he trusted it. The path had narrowed to a strip between the cliff and a tumble of broken rock. Beyond it, the split-topped tower rose from the next ridge, its two blunt points cutting into the dim sky.

The silver child stared at the gap in the trail. Its light, faint since the waystation, gathered at its fingertips.

Oliver glanced from that glow to the remaining path. “If you can light where the stones are, we can cross. Slowly.”

The child looked at him. Then it pressed one small hand to the cliff.

Silver traced the rock in branching lines. The glow caught the edges of stones hidden beneath dust and showed a narrow ledge curving around the break. It did not make the path safe. It made the danger visible.

Oliver went first, testing each foothold and calling back where Rose should place her feet. The Moon waited until Rose had crossed before following. When it reached Oliver, it kept close to the cliff, its pale face turned toward the stones underfoot.

On the far side, Rose sat down without asking. Her cheeks had gone pale. Oliver knelt to tighten the strap of her pack, though it had not come loose.

“You’re tired,” he said.

“A little.” Rose drank from their flask and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “The path was steep.”

“We’ll rest here.”

She nodded. Her fingers stayed curled around the flask after she had put it away. Oliver watched her for another moment, then set the pack beside her and looked back at the tower. The sun had slipped behind the hills. They would reach it before dark if they kept moving.

He hated how quickly the road turned every small delay into a choice. He hated more that Rose had to make the same choices with him.

They rested until she stood on her own. Oliver gave her his hand anyway. She took it, squeezed once, then let go before they started down the slope.

The tower’s lower door had fallen inward. Oliver picked his way through the rubble, keeping one arm out to stop Rose from catching her sleeve on the broken stone. The entrance smelled of wet earth and old soot. A shallow groove ran across the floor and up the opposite wall, too straight to be a crack. When the silver child passed over it, light pooled in the groove and climbed toward the ceiling.