Night used to wait.
It lingered at the edge of things,
watching windows,
listening for signs that everyone was ready.
Lights stayed on.
Voices continued.
Plans insisted on finishing first.
Night learned to hesitate.
Then Pebble arrived.
Pebble does not announce herself.
She does not knock.
She does not ask if now is a good time.
She enters rooms already moving,
already certain
that the moment will adjust around her.
Night noticed this.
It saw how nothing truly broke
when Pebble appeared uninvited.
How conversations shifted.
How plans bent.
How life continued.
So night tried it once.
It slipped in quietly,
without warning,
while people were still talking,
still thinking they had more time.
Nothing terrible happened.
Eyes adjusted.
Candles were lit.
Someone laughed and said it was late already.
Night learned from that.
Now it does not wait to be invited.
It arrives while things are unfinished.
It settles while tasks remain half-done.
It does not apologize.
When darkness falls suddenly,
when the sky dims faster than expected,
people do not feel rushed.
They say,
“Night never asks.”
Mohg does not turn on extra lights.
He lies down where he is.
Pebble keeps moving in the dark,
just as fast as before.
Night holds them both.
And nothing is lost
by letting it arrive
when it chooses.
