It was autumn. Far away on the hills and close by on the meadow—rolling lazily over a hill of its own—tiny grasshoppers called out to one another, or perhaps just to the world itself. Grasshoppers, yes—because at the moment, no one feels like deciding whether they are crickets or grasshoppers. They are simply there, chirping, and that alone is enough to warrant a few lines about them.


    The steps of four shoes move across this hill—one that sits slightly apart from the others, which in turn all sit apart from one another. Their movement does not disturb the delicate soundscape of the tiny creatures; only the brittle plants beneath them whisper dryly underfoot.


    The shoes stop. And wait.


    They are waiting for the moment.


    The sun is high now, far away in space, doing just as it once learned from its stellar companions when it was young. It travels high, it blazes, and with its heat, it thickens the air—pressing down on the quiet murmur of solitary creatures, amplifying the restless rustle of the many.


    The shoes stand still. Waiting.


    Where is the moment? Was it here already, long before? Had it slipped away in the morning, or did it vanish just before their arrival? If it left, where did it go? And if it is still to come—how long should they wait?


    Stolen story; please report.


    Such a things are hard to know these days, at least in this galaxy.


    But the shoes wait.


    Is the moment truly so rare and precious? Or is it simply some overhyped spectacle, an exclusive event for which only the two of them were sent a special email invitation? Is that why the rest of the world isn’t here, gathered in awe, straining to catch a glimpse of its arrival?


    The shoes shuffle slightly, uncertain. But still, they wait.


    No one told them what the moment would look like, or where it would come from. And yet, I am certain there has been someone—somewhere, sometime—who has seen it, felt it before. Why didn’t they ask someone wiser, someone who knows the endless cosmos better than they do? Someone who could have told them how to wait. What to wait for.


    Oh, yes. The moment.


    It was here. Of course, it was here.


    The grasshoppers noticed it, but it no longer interested them enough to change the rhythm of their song. Neither louder nor softer, their steady pulse remained unchanged. They had seen too many moments before, knew them too well to be stirred by the arrival, presence, or passing of another.


    Everyone knew it was here—the hills, the plants, the tiny creatures.


    Everyone, except the four shoes.


    The sun had already turned its gaze to another room, where more water, more people bustled. It left the four shoes behind, to either find the moment for themselves—or, failing that, to make one of their own.