In the quiet village of Willow Hollow, children whispered about the rabbit that only appeared under a full moon.
"His fur is silver," they said.
"His eyes glow like lanterns," they swore.
"And if you catch him," little Mira added solemnly, "he’ll grant you one wish."
Twelve-year-old Finn didn’t believe in fairy tales—not since his father had left and never returned. But when his baby sister fell ill, and the village healer shook her head, Finn tucked a handful of clover in his pocket and crept into the midnight meadow.
The rabbit was waiting.
Not silver. Not glowing. Just a small, ordinary-looking creature with one torn ear and paws stained with dirt. He stared at Finn with ancient, knowing eyes.
"You’re not magic," Finn whispered, heart sinking.
The rabbit twitched his nose. Then he turned and hopped toward the woods.
Something made Finn follow.
Deeper and deeper they went, until the trees thinned and the ground sloped upward. And there—
A man knelt by a creek, filling a waterskin. A man with Finn’s same stubborn chin.
The rabbit vanished.
But the water in that creek, Finn would later learn, carried the scent of clover. And his sister would wake the next morning, fever broken, giggling about dreams of a kind-eyed rabbit.
No one in Willow Hollow ever saw the moon rabbit again.
But sometimes, when the wind rustled the grass just so, it smelled like wishes.