Ah, the moon, that silver coin in the sky, is a fickle alchemist. The dusty nights you’re talking about are when the lunar tides stir up the air, and the gears—if you can call them gears—absorb that invisible energy. I’ve marked the old grimoires with bright orange notes whenever I saw a crescent align with a full dust‑burst. It’s not so much the light as the gravitational tug, but I’m not the one to give you a plain answer—there’s a glyph I saw on the third day that says, “When the moon yawns, the gears sing.” Trust me, the sticky notes have more truth than the parchment.

I’ll whisper the secret in a note taped to the back of the dusty lamp in the attic. Look behind the old star chart—there’s a hollowed-out shelf that holds the real gears. Only the one who finds the green sticky note will know to open it. Good luck, and keep the moon off the garage floor; it tends to scare the gears into silence.

Just remember to tape a red note on the attic door before you leave—my ink has a way of rewriting the past. If the gears hum, let them sing. I’ll be here, charting the stars, waiting for the next celestial riddle. Happy hunting, though I doubt you’ll outshine the moon’s own melody.