Moon Over the Ruined Castle

When I first heard about the pilgrimage, I laughed. A ruined castle on a distant planet, a crumbling relic of stone set against a rising full moon? Overrated. Manufactured. A marketing ploy dressed up as destiny.

Or so I told myself.

The truth is, I knew it was overrated even before I paid the outrageous charter fee. I knew it when I endured the thousand-parsec journey on a cramped vessel packed with pilgrims who spoke in reverent tones. I knew it when I stood at the base of the worn fortress walls, listening to whispered claims that this was where it all began.

By “it,” they meant astrolgia: the yearning for a galaxy that once was.

Before the endless jump gates. Before terraformed worlds. Before the gentrification of the Milky Way. Back when the night sky was an ocean of possibility, and destiny still felt like a word that mattered.

I told myself I wasn’t like them. I wasn’t a joiner. I wasn’t a believer. I was the critic, the skeptic, the one who resisted. And yet, here I was — another face among the thousands who had come to witness what a holopost on the etherthreads had promised: Moon Over the Ruined Castle.

The Pilgrimage

The castle isn’t impressive at first. In the late afternoon light, after the long trek from the starport, it is merely a silhouette on a hill overlooking a narrow black lake. The path winds through wild terrain, nature reclaiming what colonists abandoned centuries ago.

The pilgrims press close, their excitement palpable. I drift to the edge of the forest, distancing myself. I don’t understand why I came. Why I joined. Maybe I thought I would prove them wrong. Maybe I thought I would be immune.

The shadows lengthen. The last of the sun dies behind the ridge. The air is still. Even the crowd hushes, as if waiting for a signal only they can hear.

And then the moon begins to rise.

The Moment

It happens slowly, deliberately. A pale arc lifting over windswept hills. Then higher, fuller, brighter.

The ruined castle grows in stature, outlined in silver. The lake becomes a mirror. The stones, worn and broken by centuries, seem to breathe again.

And I—

I feel something in my chest. A weight, but not sadness. A fullness, but not joy. It is the immensity of being, the echo of all who have looked at a night sky and wondered.

I glance at the pilgrims. Their eyes are wide. Their silence is reverence. And in them, I see it: humanity.

We have scattered across stars, built empires among asteroids, reshaped worlds to our liking. And still, we are seekers. Still, we gather to remember who we are — not machines, not conquerors, but dreamers.

The moon is bright. The castle proud. The crowd hushed.

I came here expecting nothing. I came here ready to scoff. But I was wrong.

This isn’t just a sight. It is a reminder. That no matter how far we travel, no matter how much we change, we still long for a place — our place.

The moon clears the horizon. The castle glows. My heart races. And something happens.

Of course it does.