It was 10:45 PM when my phone buzzed with a message from Teeba, my colleague. “Look at the moon!” she wrote. No emojis, no context—just that. At first, I blinked at the screen, mildly puzzled. Teeba’s late-night messages usually carried weight, so I trusted the urgency in her words. I got up, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtains.

And there it was.

The moon, full and radiant, hung in the sky like a celestial lantern. But tonight, it wasn’t just glowing—it was crowned. A perfect, luminous ring encircled it, like a halo drawn by the hand of something divine. I stood there, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. It wasn’t just beautiful—it was arresting. The kind of sight that makes you forget everything else.

“Prasad!” I called out, already dialling his number. “You’ve got to see this!”

Minutes later, we were both on the terrace, necks craned, eyes wide, hearts quiet. The moon, framed by its ethereal halo, looked like something out of a myth. We didn’t speak at first. We just stood there, letting the silence stretch, letting the moment settle into our bones.

“What is it?” Prasad asked, his voice hushed.

“It’s a lunar halo,” I replied, remembering the science I’d vaguely picked up somewhere along the way. “Moonlight refracting through ice crystals in the atmosphere.”

We talked about how incredible it was, how we’d never seen anything like it. And, of course, being the curious souls we are, we started diving deeper.

Turns out, this halo, this beautiful ring, is caused by tiny ice crystals in those high, wispy cirrostratus clouds. The moonlight hits these crystals, bends, and creates this 22-degree ring around the moon. It’s like the atmosphere is putting on a light show, just for us.

We even learned that these halos have cultural significance. Some people believe they’re omens, others see them as signs of change. It’s fascinating how something so scientific can also be so deeply connected to human stories.

But the beauty of it wasn’t just in the science. It was in the stories.

Across cultures, lunar halos have been seen as omens, portents of change, or messages from the divine. In folklore, they’re signs of shifting tides—weather, fate, emotion. Some say they herald storms; others say they mark transitions. It’s fascinating how something so mathematically precise can also be so spiritually charged.

And then, as if the night hadn’t already gifted us enough, we remembered—it was the winter solstice. The longest night of the year. And somewhere in the world, a total lunar eclipse was unfolding. A full moon, a halo, a solstice, and an eclipse—all converging in one night. We couldn’t see the eclipse from Baghdad, but knowing it was happening added a layer of cosmic poetry to the moment.

Apparently, the last time a total lunar eclipse coincided with the winter solstice was in 1638. That’s nearly four centuries ago. Just thinking about that made the night feel timeless, like we were standing in a moment that stretched across generations.

Under that haloed moon, with Prasad beside me and Teeba’s message still glowing on my phone, I felt something shift. A quiet reminder from the universe: to pause, to look up, to let wonder in.

The moon wore a crown of ice and light,
A whisper traced across the night.
Not every miracle makes a sound—
Some simply ask that we look around.

We live in a world of notifications and deadlines, of screens and schedules. But sometimes, the universe sends a message that cuts through all of it. A whisper in the night: “Look at the moon.”

So the next time your phone buzzes with a late-night nudge, don’t ignore it. Step outside. Look up. Let the sky surprise you. Because in that one glance, you might find yourself standing in the middle of something extraordinary—a moment that connects you to science, to story, and to the quiet magic of being alive.