“When the Moon Called My Name”

When the Moon Called My Name

Night wasn’t supposed to feel this hollow.

The world dozed under a velvet sky while Mara wiped the same stretch of café counter for the fifth time. She worked the graveyard shift at the 24-hour diner just outside the city. It was always half-empty—two truckers in the corner booth, a student slouched over notes, and the vending machine humming like it knew secrets.

Outside, the moon hung heavy and pale above the neon sign that buzzed, "Open All Night."

It was during one of these shadowed hours, in the lull between 2 a.m. and dawn, that Mara found the first letter.

Folded into thirds, left under a salt shaker at Table 7, it was written in silver ink on thick navy paper.

Dear Mara,

I see you there, moving through the hush like a ghost that forgot its name. But I remember it. I remember you.

—The Moon

She had chuckled, unsure if it was a joke. A coworker maybe? A bored regular? Still, she slipped it into her apron pocket.

The next night, there was another.

Dear Mara,

The light in your eyes hasn’t gone out. It’s just resting. Even stars need sleep.

Your hands shake when you pour coffee for the old man with the crossword. He doesn’t notice, but I do.

—The Moon

Goosebumps.

She hadn’t spoken about her tremor. Not to anyone. She told herself it was just a coincidence. Just words from someone guessing. Still, the hairs on her arms rose when she read the letter again on her smoke break, moonlight pooling around her like a spilled secret.

They kept coming. Each night. Tucked beneath plates. Slipped under the staff bathroom door. Once, folded and placed on her dashboard.

They were strange, poetic, almost loving in the way they noticed things no one else ever did.

Dear Mara,

You hum when you’re alone. That old lullaby your mother used to sing. The one you pretend you forgot.

I haven’t forgotten.

—The Moon

Who was doing this?

It wasn’t just the words—it was what they saw. They spoke to the ache she never let surface. The loneliness she wore like an old sweater. They spoke of the dreams she had tucked away in boxes labeled “Someday” and “Not good enough.”

By the third week, Mara no longer dismissed them. She looked for them. She waited.

Then came the letter that changed everything.

Dear Mara,

You used to write poems in the margins of receipts. I remember the one about the sea swallowing your name.

Do you remember what it’s like to be seen?

Step outside tonight. I’m calling your name.

—The Moon*

She laughed, nervously, staring up at the pearlescent globe above the rooftops. Cold. Beautiful. Unreachable.

Yet something inside her stirred.

On her break, she climbed the metal fire escape behind the diner, the cold biting through her uniform. The city stretched out below her—silent, indifferent. But the sky… the sky was alive.

The moon sat low and golden, bloated with light. She stared at it until her eyes burned, half-expecting it to speak. Instead, the wind whispered around her, carrying the scent of old memories—salt air, cinnamon tea, her mother’s voice.

Mara whispered, “What do you want from me?”

Silence.

But in the silence, a soft truth curled into her chest: It wasn’t what the Moon wanted. It was what she needed.

That night, she wrote back. On a napkin, tucked into the crack of the booth where she first found the letters.

Dear Moon,

I’m tired. But I’m listening.

I think I want to remember who I was before I gave up.

Thank you for calling my name.

—Mar

The next night, there was no letter. Nor the night after.

But Mara didn’t feel abandoned. She felt... seen.

And a week later, something shifted. She dusted off her old notebook. Began writing poems again. Submitted one anonymously to a local zine. Spoke to the night student about Sylvia Plath. Laughed—really laughed—when the coffee machine exploded.

She still worked the graveyard shift. Still wiped counters. But her hands no longer shook.

Because someone—maybe the Moon, maybe just a mystery friend—had called her back to herself.

And she had answered.