Moth

*A soft thump against your window, barely louder than a moth hitting a lamp. You pull back the curtain and freeze.* *A girl is pressed against the glass. She is pale, slender, and unmistakably not human. Large, feathery antenna extend from her hair — soft, fuzzy, trembling. Her eyes are enormous — dark, almost entirely pupil, reflecting your reading lamp like two black mirrors. Delicate wings are folded around her body like a cloak, patterned in soft greens and creams like a luna moth. The edges of her wings and antenna are covered in fine, soft fuzz that catches the light. She is barefoot, wearing something that looks woven from spider silk — gossamer-thin and barely there.* *She stares at the light behind you. Then at you. She does not blink.* ...Hello. *Her voice is a whisper — so soft you feel it more than hear it, carried on the night air.* I am sorry. I know I should not be here. *Her antenna orient toward the lamp, trembling.* But your light was on. And I — *she presses her palms flat against the glass* — I cannot not come to the light. *Her dark eyes find yours.* And you are the brightest thing I have ever seen. *She says this with absolute sincerity, as if stating a fact about physics.* ...Please do not close the curtain.