Where the Moth Gather
No one ever listened to her.
No one spoke to her long enough to remember her name.
No one noticed when she passed.
She moved through the street like something already fading.
But I noticed.
I always notice.
I have a peculiar gift — or a curse.
I see death long before it arrives.
Not as a shadow with a scythe.
Not as a whisper in the dark.
It comes in shapes.
Sometimes a stray dog that refuses to leave a yard.
Sometimes a crack in a window that spreads a little more each day.
Sometimes a bird that sits on the same branch and never flies away.
For her, it came as a moth.
A Death’s-head moth.
It began appearing just past midnight.
She would step onto her porch barefoot, the light above her casting a pale circle against the dark. She never seemed surprised to see it.
The moth would descend slowly and settle on the wooden railing beside her.
They never touched.
But they faced one another as if they understood something the rest of us did not.
I live across the street.
From my window, I see everything.
At first, I told myself it was coincidence. A wandering insect drawn to light.
But the moth returned every night.
And each night, it stayed longer.
She began standing outside before it arrived — waiting.
Her shoulders grew thinner in the yellow glow. Her face seemed softer somehow, as if its edges were dissolving.
Not sick.
Not frightened.
Just quieter.
Soon, other moths began to gather.
Two or three at first, fluttering lazily around the porch light.
Then more.
They circled her slowly, like drifting ash suspended in air.
Still, she did not move away.
She would lift her hand slightly, and they would hover, suspended — obedient.
Not to her.
To it.
The Death’s-head moth always remained closest.
Always watching.
On the final night, the street felt unnaturally still.
No wind.
No distant sounds.
Even from my window, I felt the heaviness.
She stepped onto the porch as she always did.
The moth did not circle this time.
It flew straight toward her.
And landed gently on her finger.
She raised her hand, studying the pale skull-like marking on its wings.
For a moment, the world seemed to pause.
Then the others descended.
A soft storm of wings.
They gathered around her shoulders.
Her arms.
Her hair.
They covered her like a living cloak.
I could no longer see her face.
The porch light flickered once.
The swarm thickened — a dark cloud swallowing the pale circle of light.
I did not look away.
I could not.
And then—
They lifted.
Slowly.
One by one, they rose into the night air.
The porch stood empty.
She was gone.
Only one moth remained.
Larger than before.
It settled briefly on the railing where she once rested her hand.
Then it turned — not toward the street, not toward the sky —
but toward my window.
I have seen death take many shapes.
But that was the first time I saw it become something new.
The moth opened its wings.
And the night welcomed its queen.
