The moon rose slowly that night, heavy and low over the river. It hung there like a coin flipped by someone unseen, deciding who would win and who would lose.
On one bank, the people shouted.
On the other, they shouted back.
Between them, the current carried away the words until only the frogs and the crickets knew what was said. An old man sat at the crossing bridge, a cigar burning between two fingers. He had been perched there since dusk, watching them build their fires. One side’s flames were blue, the other’s red, and the smoke climbed to the same pale sky. The observer wondered if the moon cared whose smoke would reach it first.
The moon had seen worse during past phases. It had watched cities burn and lovers promise forever. It had listened to generals speak of peace and men whisper of war. It forgave each one the same way as it shone, then turned its face away when the sun rose.
The old man flicked ash into the dark.
“They all think they own the night,” he said.
No one heard him but the river. The river didn’t argue. It only murmured its slow reply, the kind of truth that doesn’t need to be repeated.
Further down the shore, a young man climbed a crate to make himself taller. His voice carried like brass. He spoke of broken things and stolen dreams, his arms slicing the air as if cutting through fog.
The crowd roared.
Across the river, another man stood on another crate, shouting nearly the same words but meaning something else entirely. His crowd roared too.
The moonlight hit both of them, equal and unbending. It made their faces silver and hollow, like masks at a masquerade no one wanted to attend, but were forced by their own ignorance.
The old man lit another cigar. The match flared, and for a heartbeat he saw his own reflection in the flame... two eyes, tired and small, staring back.
“You can’t outshout the moon,” he said. “It listens to all and sides with none.”
When the wind picked up, the flags on both banks snapped and tangled on their poles. A few men kept shouting, but most grew quiet, realizing their fires had dimmed. The moonlight spread across the water like a clean sheet over a corpse.
A woman appeared at the edge of the bridge. She carried a lantern with a cracked glass and asked the old man if the crossing was safe.
“As safe as anything else tonight,” he said.
She nodded and started across. Her reflection wavered beneath her steps. In the middle, she stopped and looked at the sky.
“Funny thing,” she said. “The moon don’t seem so far when it’s full.”
The old man smiled.
“That is how it fools us. It comes close enough for hope, then backs away before we can touch it.”
When she reached the other side, she didn’t join either crowd. She kept walking into the dark, her lantern swinging like a second moon in her hand. The shouting started again behind her.
She didn’t look back.
The night deepened. The old man stayed until the moon climbed higher and the stars began to fade. He knew what would come with dawn. The posturing, the noise, the proud men claiming they’d won something. He had seen it before. They would call the daylight truth, but he knew better. Daylight only exposed what the night forgave.
The river whispered on, taking the ashes and echoes out to the sea.
By the time the first light touched the water, the bridge was empty, the crates abandoned, and the two fires burned to the same gray ash.
The moon, pale and distant now, watched from the western sky. It had no side, no speech, no mercy. It was only a mirror for men who couldn’t stand to see their own reflection in daylight.
When the sun finally rose, it washed away the silver, leaving only the smoke. The old man’s footprints led off the bridge and into the reeds. He had left before anyone noticed. Maybe he followed the woman with the lantern. Maybe he followed the moon.
And by the next night, when it rose again, it was thinner and less forgiving, but still there. Watching. Waiting for the shouting to start anew.
Because it always does. The shouting will never go away, but those shouting will be replaced. Replaced by time and future full moons.
