Alyx Chérifa Taounza-Jeminet

As it happened, and she was only eight years old at the time, she turned to the night eye in the sky, but did not say good night. She said goodbye moon, hoping the rock would shed a tear. But she could not even trust the friendship of the wide milky blanket over her head.

Another star seemed to have died. Her vision was blurry, from the corners came darkness, much more intense than that of the immensity. She feared someone was behind, coming from across the underneath, the underbed, a world where only winter clothes were supposed to live.

There would be a hand, grabbing her from the mattress, and no scream. So she prepared. And she looked defiantly at the same crackling of the paint at the ceiling, the window went dark, but nothing came.

That was the first night she waited for the sun never to come out again. Before that she always feared the sun would come, but too bright and hot, and would melt us all away. The sun could not betray her, he would come to chase the hand. And the moon might finally be jealous.