The Plastic Moon Society

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In the town of Mirage Bay, everything glowed under a permanent soft filter. Trees were symmetrical. Dogs didn't bark. Even the moon above seemed too round, too polished—like it had been buffed by the Homeowners Association.

Every evening, at exactly 7:07 p.m., the citizens gathered for Glow Hour—a ritual of gratitude, serenity, and lighting scented candles from a pre-approved catalogue.

The mastermind behind it all?

Juniper Vale, the town’s “Happiness Architect.” With her impeccable bob cut and lemon-hued blazers, she curated joy like it was a luxury item.

Her motto?

“If life gives you lemons, stage them symmetrically in a bowl.”

But the illusion began to splinter the night a child’s crayon drawing mysteriously appeared on the town square’s marble statue. The drawing was crude—just a moon with a crack and the words:

“It’s not real.”

Juniper ordered an investigation. The drawing vanished by morning.

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Then came Selby, a wandering beekeeper with tangled hair and boots caked in actual mud. No one knew how she got past the gates.

She refused to smile on command. She brought her own lemons.

And worse—she questioned Glow Hour.

“Why is your moon made of plastic?” she asked Juniper.

“It’s fiberglass,” Juniper replied, smiling tightly. “Shatter-resistant.”

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Selby showed the children the real moon. She pointed out constellations no longer visible from town. She let the weeds grow. She whispered stories of sadness and struggle—of light you had to fight for.

The people began to remember. That joy wasn’t manufactured. That grief wasn’t ugliness. That beauty didn’t need approval to exist.

Juniper’s plastic perfection trembled.

Then it cracked.

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The next Glow Hour was silent.

And in that silence, something sacred stirred.

The moon above—still glowing, still too perfect—flickered.

Juniper took off her lemon blazer. She walked barefoot into the town square. And she said:

“I forgot what real light feels like. Thank you for reminding me.”

Selby handed her