The Ink Chapel

A few days ago, I let a giant moth into my house. An Owlet I think it was. I don’t know. I’m not an entomologist, (although a few years ago I wanted to be one).

Now, a normal person probably would’ve screamed, grabbed a shoe, and started swinging like they were defending the kingdom from a medieval plague. But unfortunately for me, I looked at this fuzzy little cryptid and immediately got emotionally attached.

His name became Cal.

Slightly confused Cal. Mildly disheveled Cal. Flying with the confidence of someone who absolutely does not know what they’re doing Cal.

And then he literally vanished.

For TWO DAYS.

At first I figured he flew back outside somehow, but then the paranoia started. Every time I walked past a lamp, I found myself looking around like a divorced father in a grocery store:
“Has anyone seen my son?”

I checked corners. Curtains. Plants. The bathroom ceiling. Every day I genuinely wondered if I’d ever see him again or if he had simply started a new life somewhere behind my bookshelf.

Then yesterday, out of nowhere, he came barrelling through the kitchen like he had just returned from war.

Naturally, instead of behaving like a rational adult, I shut all the doors and began what can only be described as a hostage negotiation. I dragged a stool into the kitchen, armed myself with a glass cup, and repeatedly tried to convince Cal to land on my hand peacefully.

Cal, however, had the survival instincts of a drunk Victorian child.

After several failed attempts and what probably looked like a very concerning display to any outside observer, I finally caught him safely in the cup.

And here’s the thing:
I knew he was dying.

He was slowing down. Barely flying. Just tired.

So I did what any emotionally unstable writer with attachment issues and a bookstore-scented candle would do — I decided to preserve him.

Some people press flowers.
Some people collect postcards.
Apparently I freeze moths for sentimental reasons now.

But honestly? I don’t regret it.

There was something strangely beautiful about him. The orange hidden beneath his wings. The fuzziness of him. The way something so small and fragile still fought so hard to stay airborne, even while flying like a malfunctioning paper airplane.

So now Cal is resting peacefully in my freezer until I can pin and frame him properly.

Which is probably the weirdest sentence I’ve ever written.

Anyway.
Rest in peace, Cal.
You chaotic little emo kite.

Footnote: If reincarnation is real, Cal is probably avoiding porch lights now.

Copyright © The Ink Chapel. Any attempts to recreate this emotional support moth experience without written permission will be met with judgment and possibly haunting by Cal.