No one in Larkspur Hollow remembers the moon as anything but a fragile sliver, faint as a silver button lost in the sky. Windows glow with candlelight, and villagers walk quickly beneath the moon’s gaze, whispering of how it once was round and glowing. Only the ancient clockmaker, beard sweeping his shoes, pauses to squint upward, his memory foggy but longing. Yet, in a small, tidy house at the edge of town, Mira sits on her bed, pockets weighted with crumbs, her gaze fixed on the famished moon.

Mira[/@ch_1]'s tiny attic room, the air is warm with the scent of fresh bread, scattered crumbs twinkling atop her quilt like grains of golden stardust.] Mira slides her hands into her pockets, feeling the rough edges of saved bread—warm bits, crusty bits, sweet bits. She believes crumbs are the leftovers of love, too precious to waste, and tonight she gathers them with purpose. The moon hangs so low it snags on the church steeple, its glow barely brushing the rooftops. Climbing onto her windowsill, Mira whispers softly to the night, "Are you hungry?"

Mira[/@ch_1]'s toes, turning dust motes to floating pearls in the dim attic glow.] The moon blinks, its surface flickering with hope and longing. Mira does what makes sense: she sprinkles her crumbs into the shimmering thread of light. Each crumb rises, spinning upward, and as they touch the moon’s surface, they burst like tiny stars, sending ripples of brightness through its thin shell. The moon sighs, a sound soft as wind in the grass, and grows a little rounder, its glow more tender now.

Mira[/@ch_1] perched at her window, the town below drowsing under a waxing moon, fields silvered with dew and apple trees heavy with fruit.] Mira brings new gifts: apple peels curling like ribbons, a spoonful of honey that glistens as it drips, and songs—gentle, invented melodies spun from her heart. The moon devours them all, most especially the songs, which fill its craters and smooth its scars. As the moon rounds out, strange magic stirs in Larkspur Hollow: seeds sprout overnight, dogs sing in harmony, and neighbors remember lost laughter, old dreams, and even each other.

Mira[/@ch_1]'s cupboard is bare; her voice, weary, falters as the rain taps on her window and the moon waits, luminous and expectant.] Mira searches every pocket, but finds nothing—no crumbs, no fruit, not even a song. She bows her head, sorrow clouding her gentle face, and whispers, "I’m sorry. I have nothing tonight." The moon lowers itself until its bright fullness fills her window, its light wide and understanding. For a heartbeat, all is still but the hush of the rain and the moon’s silent regard.

Mira[/@ch_1] in a warm, golden embrace, swirling with hidden stories and gentle courage.] The moon does something no moon has done before: it feeds Mira. Moonlight pours into her chest, filling her with tales, with hope, with the quiet certainty that to give is also to receive. She feels her emptiness replaced by a glow that is soft and enduring, like the memory of kindness on a cold night. Outside, the rain subsides and the moon shines round and bright above the town.

Mira[/@ch_1] awakens with her pockets brimming—not with crumbs, but with radiant, golden fragments of moonlight.] From that day, the moon remains full, not because it is fed with food, but because it is remembered and cherished. Mira grows up to become a storyteller, her tales weaving through the hearts of children gathered ’round her feet. Beneath every bright moon, she teaches them the quiet truth she learned: "Even the smallest kindness can light the sky."