The Mountain Lion's Path
A quiet story from the night
I live high in the mountains, where the trees grow thin, and the nights are quiet.
Most creatures sleep when the sky darkens - but not me.
The dark is when I come alive.
My paws move softly across stone and pine, my body low to the earth.
I don’t rush. I don’t stumble. I listen.
Every shift of wind, every broken twig tells me something.
I hunt alone.
I eat when I can.
I wait when I must.
Some nights, there is no light at all - only the scent of cold air and the shape of the world in silence.
But other nights… she’s there.
The Moon.
She rises above the trees like a slow breath, and suddenly everything is different.
I can see further.
I can move differently.
I can feel her watching me, though she never says a word.
I’ve followed her since I was young.
My mother used to rest in moonlight, her eyes half closed, her ears always listening.
She taught me to trust the dark - and to know when light returns.
To me, the moon isn’t a symbol.
She’s not magic.
She’s part of my life, the way snow is, the way hunger is, the way stillness is.
And when she disappears, I do not panic.
I wait.
Because I know she always returns.
And so do I.
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