Page 11 of Moth to Her Flame

Even if he did fix my signal.

Even if, for just a moment, his quiet laugh made me forget to be afraid.

“Keep those calls coming, truth seekers. The night is young, and the mysteries are just beginning.”

Outside, the shadows deepen. Empty now, but I doubt it’s for long.

For some reason, that thought doesn’t terrify me quite as much as it should.

Chapter Ten

Chelsea

Movement outside the broadcast room window catches my eye. Riven’s been gone for a few hours, but now he’s leaning against a tree, barely visible in the moonlight. Something’s wrong—his wings are pulled too tight, his normally fluid movements are jerky and strained.

“And now, truth seekers, it’s time for our final segment about the unexplained and unexpected…” My hand hovers over the control panel. “Line three, you’re live with Nocturna.”

“Long-time listener, first-time caller.” His voice through the speakers is surprisingly warm, with an undertone of wry humor I’ve never heard before. “Hoping you might have some advice about being locked out in the cold.”

Despite myself, my lips twitch. “Interesting predicament. Care to elaborate?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been out here a while. Starting to think maybe I’ve been too… hesitant… to knock on certain doors.”

Through the window, his antennae droop further. He’s barely standing.

“Well, listeners, this raises an interesting philosophical question.” My heart pounds as I choose my next words carefully. “When do we stop letting fear of the unknown keep us from opening doors to new possibilities?”

His head lifts slightly as he responds. “The unknown can be pretty intimidating.”

“True. But sometimes…” I can’t believe I’m saying this. “Sometimes we have to trust our instincts about when to let someone in.”

“Even if that someone is…” He sways against the tree. “Different?”

“Especially then.” Taking a deep breath, I continue, “You know, I’ve been researching threshold folklore. The idea that invitation changes everything. Makes the unknown… known.”

Through the window, his wings tremble. Not just from hope—he’s in genuine pain.

“Speaking of thresholds,” my voice stays steady despite my racing heart, “my door’s always open to late-night philosophical discussions—metaphorically speaking. Stop by anytime.”

There’s a pause. Then, softly: “Careful what you offer, Nocturna. Some of us take such invitations very seriously.” His voice dipped into a lower register than makes my mouth dry. Where, I wonder, did that come from?

“Maybe some of us are finally ready to be serious.” The words come out before I can overthink them. “Now, while our caller contemplates thresholds, let’s hear from our sponsors…”

As the pre-recorded ad for Werewolf’s Lint Roller plays—”Works during all moon phases”—a soft knock echoes from my door. Drawing a shaky breath, I open it.

Riven stands there, looking beyond fatigued. His face is haggard and his wings are dragging the floor in exhaustion, but his eyes spark with intelligence.

“So,” he manages a weak smile, “about that philosophical discussion…”

“Get in here before you fall over.” My hand brushes his arm as he passes, and suddenly his wings burst with soft golden light. The glow reflects in his startled eyes.

“Sorry, I…” He starts to pull away.

“Don’t.” The harsh word surprises us both. “I mean, you obviously need… whatever that provides. And I did invite you in.”

“Technically, you invited philosophical discussion.”

“Are you always this literal when you’re about to collapse?”

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