Page 10 of Moth to Her Flame

“I’m a monster who appeared on her doorstep and won’t leave. By the way, in case you missed it, I happen to be good at reading body language. Every time her gaze lands on me, it’s all she can do to suppress her shudder of revulsion.” The truth of it burns. “She deserves better than being stuck with someone who makes her skin crawl.”

“She’s stronger than you give her credit for,” Volt observes. “And smarter. She’ll figure it out, eventually.”

“Maybe.” The pain recedes slightly as I lose myself in the technical puzzle of the wiring harness. “But for now, I can at least make sure her equipment works properly.”

Volt rises, wingspan blocking out the morning sun. “Just remember—you’re not the only one who needs something here. She’s isolated, broadcasting into the void, searching for truth. Sound familiar?”

With a crack of thunder that rattles the solar panels, he launches into the sky, leaving me alone with my work and the endless ache of separation.

The distance between Chelsea and me stretches like an open wound. Thirty hours, twenty-five minutes, and counting.

Chapter Nine

Chelsea

The broadcast equipment hums to life with unusual clarity tonight. Weird. After weeks of fighting interference and static, the signal’s suddenly crystal clear. Suspicion prickles along my spine as the cooling night air drifts through the open window.

A quick scan of the yard reveals nothing but shadows. Still, something’s different. When I go outside to check around, I notice the solar array on the roof catches moonlight at an angle that seems… adjusted.

“Of course, he messed with my equipment,” I mutter, sliding into position behind the mic. “Because boundaries mean nothing to mothmen.”

The red recording light blinks on.

“Good evening, truth seekers and shadow watchers. You’re live with Nocturnal Transmissions, where reality blurs and mysteries deepen.” The familiar rhythm of broadcasting settles my irritation. “Tonight, we’re opening the lines to discuss unexplained electrical phenomena. Power surges, equipment malfunctions, strange lights—if you’ve experienced it, I want to hear about it.”

The first caller is Mountain Mike, a regular whose paranoia usually trends toward government conspiracies rather than supernatural events. “I’m telling you, Chelsea, my whole workshop went haywire last night. Tools flying off the walls, sparks everywhere—and then I saw it through the window. This massive bird, like lightning made flesh!”

“I’ve never heard you wax poetic before, Mike.”

My gaze darts to the window. Just trees swaying in the breeze. No giant electric birds in sight. At least not now.

“Interesting timing, Mike. Any other unusual events leading up to this incident?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Static crackles across the line. “My neighbor’s been complaining about power surges. And there are these weird lights up on Miller’s Ridge—”

My computer video light turns on, then blinks out a second later. As I’m covering the damn thing with a Post-It to maintain my privacy, a branch snaps outside.

Great. The Mothman’s lurking again. Probably critiquing my broadcasting setup while he’s at it.

“Sorry about that, folks. Technical difficulties.” My hand hovers over the controls. “Let’s take a quick break to hear from our sponsors. Remember, Jersey Devil’s Hot Sauce—when regular spice just isn’t enough to wake the dead.”

During the pre-recorded ad, movement catches my eye. A shadow detaches from the treeline, wings spreading briefly and ruffling before folding back. Even from here, the stiff way he holds himself broadcasts pain.

The sight shouldn’t twist something in my chest. He’s not my problem. He’s the reason I need better security cameras and possibly an industrial-strength bug zapper.

But he fixed my broadcast equipment. Without being asked. Without expecting recognition.

The ad ends, and I lean into the mic. “Welcome back, night owls. Before we return to our regularly scheduled strangeness, a quick PSA: tampering with other people’s equipment is generally frowned upon…” A pause. “Though I suppose if said tampering accidentally improves broadcast quality, one might be persuaded to overlook it. Once.”

There’s a moment of stillness outside. Then, so quiet I almost miss it, a low chuckle drifts through the open window.

“Now, speaking of unexplained phenomena, let’s hear from Tracy in Farmington. What’s keeping you up tonight, Tracy?”

As the teenager launches into an articulate story about temporal anomalies she notices after her morning showers, I catch another glimpse of movement. Riven’s leaving, antenna drooping slightly, steps unsteady.

The twist in my chest tightens. But I can’t think about that now. Can’t think about how he’s obviously hurting, or why. Can’t think about the way he helps from the shadows, asking nothing in return.

I have a show to run. And he’s still the creature who appeared uninvited in my yard and now refuses to leave.

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