A children’s tale of the Bifröst Isles
Once, long ago, there was a child who could not sleep.
They lay awake near the shore, listening to the sea breathe in the dark, when they saw the moon hanging low and bright above the water. Its light spilled across the waves like a silver road, smooth and shining, as if it had been made just for them.
The child thought:
If I follow that road, I will reach the moon.
So they slipped into the water.
The sea was calm at first.
So calm it felt like holding still air.
The light did not move.
The child swam easily, their arms cutting clean lines through the water. The moon stayed exactly where it was—close enough to feel real, far enough to feel inviting.
They swam and swam.
The swimmer grew tired, but the light remained just out of reach.
When the child looked back, the shore was gone. When they looked down, the water was dark and very deep, but the moon still shone above, gentle and patient.
Just a little farther, the child thought.
The sea grew quiet.
Too quiet.
The silver road began to stretch downward instead of forward, as though the moon had another face beneath the waves—a pale echo pulling the light into the deep.
And then the story stops.
Not with death.
Not with rescue.
Not with arrival.Parents end the tale there and kiss their children goodnight.
They say it teaches patience.
They say it teaches not to chase reflections.
They say it teaches that some things are meant to be admired from afar.