“A moth may be a poor cousin to a butterfly, but it is still beautiful none the less.”
― Anthony T. Hincks
It was safe to say that she feared moths – she understood that they would not harm her, but there was something about the speed at which their wings beat, their constant battering against the lights, and their tendency to favour her over anyone else. For as long as she could remember, she ran when a moth was present. She couldn’t stand how they got caught in her hair or behind her glasses or in her clothing.
It wasn’t until the night she met the Queen of the Moths that she learned why they had flocked to her all of those years. She appeared in a flurry of dusty wings, materialising out of the bodies of hundreds, if not thousands, of multicoloured moths.
They had been her calling card. She had been patiently waiting for her to answer and had a laugh each time she would scream and run. The Queen of the Moths rarely had the tolerance she exhibited with the young woman, but she had seen something in her all those years ago that had yet to disappear. The Queen had watched as the young woman sought after others that she had assumed were the ones calling her, and though it frustrated the Queen, she understood the nature of the process and chose not to back down.
Their exchange was silent, less a conversation and more an instant connection – the young woman understood, finally, and it had only taken nearly her entire life to find her way home.
The Queen of the Moths enfolded the young woman in her arms, covered her in the darkness that cloaked her, and warmed her at the fires of her heart. The young woman accepted her calling, accepted her place within the arms of the Queen.