moon confessional

A wild flower flickered in the Monkey King's palm—small as proof, loud as a crown He taught it tricks of wind and riddle-speech, to cart the dusk and tumble kingdoms down Its petals rewrote maps: veins as poems, each fold a compass that makes old borders frown So from that stubborn bloom a new legend grew, stitching history to song and earning its own renown

The bloom began to inventory the impossible: receipts for storms, a ledger of vanished streets and small apologies It listed a moon with pockets, a compass that read which childhood you'd be tomorrow, a church spattered in origami birds Rivers were filed under "waiting," mountains cataloged by the taste of their shadows, borders stamped with lullaby signatures The Monkey King watched the list sign

So the bloom began to pare the ledgers into three-breath prayers, each entry a small sky pocketed moon emptied river holds a child's name until morning opens its palm origami church bows

The bloom threaded receipts into a litany, columns folding like hymnals and ink rising into voice Invoices chanted storms paid in thunder; the moon's emptied pocket tinkled with small forgiving coins He watched as debits softened into refrains; names once stamped returned as swellings of mercy Paper prayed itself blank; the origami church nodded and opened a choir of creases that let borders unsew

Ledgers were intoned like temple-bells, each column chanted until numbers softened into prayers Debits unhooked like winter mittens; names returned with the small clatter of coins and laughter The origami choir counted exiles back into breath; borders loosened when every owed thing was named The Monkey King's palm held the final due, the bloom sealing forgiveness inside the closed book

He lays the book flat; the bindings toll like temple-bells and figures kneel in line. A fingertip traces debts into offerings — ink fogs up the air and becomes slow incense. Petals fold receipts into prayers; village names lift from margins and stand, small and present. With a breath he seals the final tally; signatures unroll into roads and what was owed walks back home.

He tips his hand and the air thickens into prayer-smoke, a small absolved weather that settles on roofs. The scent unthreads the numerals; debts exhale as if soothed by a cedar lullaby and autumn salt. Petals lean into the haze and breathe out mercy; village names stand, blinking clean of fine print. The origami choir becomes a slow thurible, folding wings into a warm, percussive perfume. Ink soft

The moon leans in, a small forgiving bowl, receiving whispered debts like washed coins. Signed names unthread from paper and step into thresholds; every owed thing knocks and is answered. The origami choir folds to silence, its wings of crease and smoke returning to the quiet of prayer. He opens his palm; the flower curls into seed, carrying mercy as a map so the world can find its way back home.