Dusk loomed over the garden.

The moon’s glittering light crept slowly, replacing the last rays of the Sun, blooming the garden into life. Everything it touched turned anew. It was an invitation for all the nightly creatures to unfurl from their slumbers and embrace the moon’s comfort. The boisterous insects basked in the moonlight and sang their fervorous tunes while diligent owls left their nests to hunt. 

Lying dead centre of the garden, the highlight of the place, lay a pedestal holding the statue of a boy no more than the height of early adolescence. His face has been eroded by the elements over the years but anyone still could have guessed his expressions and how well sculpted he was. Several of his fingers and toes have fallen off but that was a given for a statue as old as time.

“Bob” bore on the fore of his arm. The name of the little boy was Bob. 

As the moonlight touched the feet of the stone boy, it moved, slowly but surely. Stiff at first, but fixed with the presence of the moonlight. It was like oil on a machine, giving his limbs the freedom to move. The low rubbing of rock broke the whistling of ominous cold winds. His expression bursted into an explosion of joy in a child-like demeanour. He arched his arms and switched the position of his feet, the starting position of a dance he had seen someone perform once. Hesitation and difficulty riddled him at first but soon he found his own rhythm to dance to.

When the moon was the brightest and posed right above the garden, his performance reached its peak. He moved without constraint, executing his moves with such precision and speed, without a hint of lag or stiffness he once showed. Despite being carved from pure stone, he gracefully jumped and danced about under the domain of the moon. The little opening at the centre of the garden was like a theatre for Bob and the moonlight was his personal spotlight. 

The first rays of sunlight broke through the dark night sky, chasing away the moonlight. Bob’s movements had gotten sluggish as the once youthful vigour at midnight had dissolved. He knew it was coming, the time when he would freeze up again. This time in the place of his calm, graceful demeanour, was etched a face of frustration and sorrow. Before long, the last bits of moonlight that gave him the gift of movement vanished and he was now rooted into place yet again, night after night, leaving him longing for the moon.