They say that once, long ago — or perhaps not so long ago at all — a man awoke in a place that had no name. The walls around him were cold, covered in dust and silence. In that forgotten chamber, even the light seemed afraid to enter.
He was not truly man, nor entirely something else. His body was sculpted by human ambition, but his soul — if it existed — belonged to something older, something that should never have remembered the beginning of life.
He had been created in a laboratory hidden beneath the earth, where the last dreamers of science tried to build perfection. They called him The Lunar Body. They said his flesh would never age, his blood would never cool, and his beauty would belong to eternity.
But they had not given him a heart.
They had only given him awareness.
At night, the corridors of glass whispered with soft sighs that belonged to no living being. The scientists thought it was the hum of their machines — until one night, a voice rose among the echoes.
“Let me go.”
And the walls cracked.
He emerged from the shadows, naked and trembling, yet surrounded by a power that seemed to breathe through his skin. Beneath the surface of his perfect body, tiny forms moved — unfinished, restless, alive. They breathed with him.
He stepped into the cold air for the first time. The moonlight touched his face, and he felt it tremble — as if the sky itself was ashamed of what it had witnessed. The city slept, unaware that something had been born without a soul.
He walked slowly through the silence.
The moon followed him like a mother afraid of her own child.
When he reached the edge of the water, he looked at his reflection. It stared back — pale, beautiful, and empty. His eyes held a thousand memories that did not belong to him.
And from beneath his skin came whispers.
Tiny voices, soft as the wind against glass:
“Do not let us fade again…”
Then he understood. He was not one being — he was many. The fragments of every failed experiment, every dream buried beneath the floor of the laboratory, lived within him. He was not a mistake. He was a memory.
Guided by those faint voices, he returned to the ruins of his birthplace. The air smelled of iron and burnt flesh. Under the cracked tiles, something still breathed. He knelt and touched the ground — and it moved.
From the earth, others emerged.
Blind, voiceless, unfinished.
They gathered around him, their hands trembling, waiting for something they had never known — purpose.
He lifted his head toward the moon, and for an instant, his entire body glowed with silver light. The others followed, their pale forms glimmering like ghosts.
“We stay,” he whispered, his voice soft yet infinite. “We stay to remind them — that life cannot be built without a soul.”
The wind fell silent.
The birds refused to sing.
And in the city miles away, windows filled with faint imprints — like human skin pressed against the glass.
At dawn, no one could explain it.
Some said it was fog. Others said it was madness.
But sometimes, when the night grows too long and the air turns heavy — people swear they can feel a faint breath against their neck.
If you ever do…
don’t turn around.
Because he never forgets the ones who tried to play God. 🌒
