The Tears of Selaveth

They say on nights when the moon hangs low and bright, she walks the silver meadows, her feet brushing dew from sorrowed grass. In her hand she carries the memory of a smile, tucked close to her heart as if it might yet return.

It was on such a night that Selaveth’s grief broke like a fragile cup. Her tears spilled into the earth, winding through roots and stones, pooling in hollows the way dreams pool behind closed eyes. Each drop shimmered with unspoken words, tender embraces lost to time, laughter that still echoed in the hollow chambers of her heart.

A wanderer came upon one such pool, weary from love’s long dying. Kneeling there, he cupped the cool water, and for an instant the world brightened. A voice, soft as the hush of leaves, whispered his name. Arms he thought forever gone slipped around his shoulders, warm as dawn.

Then it was gone, as swiftly as moonlight fleeing the clouds. The pool stilled, only water once more.

Yet he rose smiling, for even a heartbeat was enough — enough to carry love through all the years that lay ahead.

So remember this: should you ever find where Selaveth wept, drink gently, and hold your breath. For love, like the goddess’s tears, is a fragile, sacred thing — all the more precious for how briefly it returns.