For a long time, I couldn't grasp why some people were so determined to be buried in a particular place. Intellectually, I got it—I'm not foolish, despite a challenging upbringing. But it felt very sentimental, very abstract. For years, I wandered the earth like a lost soul, as if my true place was on the moon. Then one day, I was invited to the grand summer solstice parade in Pontevedro. I had to remove my shoes and my business suit. I donned the traditional attire: wide, light trousers, an over-robe, and a belt embroidered with the length of the June 21st light. This is the friendship belt. They say you must first tie it around a tree, let it turn to ashes, and repeat this a hundred times before it can be safely worn by a person. It's said to be embroidered with a hair from the fairy of the island of Youkali. They claim that if you line up the Pontevedrine belts end to end, they'd measure the circumference of the earth. But that's not true, of course. In reality, our belts connect Pontevedro to the moon. Everyone knows that.
One summer solstice night, Rados the Blue was asleep in a boat in the middle of Lake Skhodar, his belt dangling in the water. Unintentionally, he caught the moon. She was captivated by the sun embroidered on his belt. The moon was confused: the blue of the lake, Rados's blue name, and the sun shining in the night water. In less time than a shooting star, she fell in love. But Rados the Blue loved her as she was, free and ever-changing in the sky above Pontevedro, over Lake Skhodar. So, he let her go, but since then, each Pontevedrine belt marks a portion of the celestial path that separates them.