Nachttocht
The moon is a sliver of chipped ice, hung low over the heath. Your boots know the way before your eyes do: peat, root, the soft give of sand.
At the ridge, you stop. The village below is a scatter of sugar cubes, each window a weak star. You do not go down. Not yet. nachttocht
No torch. You let the dark press in — not hostile, just ancient, like the inside of a lung before breath. The moon is a sliver of chipped ice, hung low over the heath
![nachttocht](https://s.studizba.com/z.php?f=/templates/si/i/noavatar.png&w=100&h=100&t=1"){kind=avatar}
