In the West, the moon is one and singular—Selene, the silver goddess who drives her chariot across the sky.
But in the East, before time took its shape, there were twelve moons, each a daughter of Chang Xi, the silent mother of light.
She lived beyond the known heavens, where twilight lingers like a memory that never fades. Her palace was carved from pale stone, cold and luminous, standing on the shore of eternity. When she breathed, the air shimmered like frost; when she closed her eyes, the stars trembled as if listening for her dreams.
From her womb came twelve orbs of radiance—soft, fragile, and alive. They circled her, whispering in the quiet air, longing to move, to see the world beyond her still realm. Chang Xi loved them deeply, but love is not always gentle. She could not keep them close without denying them the light they were born to shine.
So one by one, she released them into the heavens. Each would rule the sky for a single month before returning to her side. Thus began the turning of time, the first measure of seasons, the rhythm by which mortals lived and died.
Yet in her palace, silence deepened. When the first moon rose, its glow left her chamber dim. When the twelfth returned, the hall flared like dawn. Between those moments, she waited—hands folded, face serene, though loneliness pressed against her like the tide against a cliff.
The gods praised her for her calm. They did not understand that stillness is not peace, but endurance. They envied her quiet eternity, never seeing that eternity is the price of letting go.
And so, when the moon seems too near, when its light feels almost human, mortals say it is Chang Xi watching, her gaze falling through the night like snow. The moonlight itself, they whisper, is her sorrow made visible—a mother's love stretched thin across the endless dark.