The puriri moth is New Zealand's largest living moth – a chunky, green-and-brown creature with a wingspan like a man's palm. Its caterpillar burrows into puriri trees, leaving a characteristic 7 shaped scar on the bark. It is a beloved oddity, a symbol of the ancient forests. Now imagine that moth bigger. Half as big again. A wingspan like a dinner plate. A body so thick and furry you could mistake it for a small bat. That was the giant moth, and it was the ghost of the night canopy. Size and lifecycle made it special. The giant moth belonged to the ghost moth family – Hepialidae – so-called because they emerge at dusk, flutter briefly, and vanish into the dark like spectres. The caterpillars were even more secretive. They spent two, three, perhaps four years inside living trees – tunnelling through the wood, feeding on sap, growing to the size of a man's thumb. When they were ready, they crawled out of the tree, burrowed into the soil, spun a cocoon, and waited. Months later, the adult emerged – soft-bodied, short-lived, spectacular. The adult moth did not eat. It had no mouthparts. Its entire existence – perhaps a week, perhaps less – was a single reproductive sprint. It flew at dusk, searching for a mate, guided by pheromones and moonlight. The female laid hundreds of tiny eggs on tree bark. The eggs hatched. The tiny caterpillars burrowed into the wood. And the cycle began again. Forest clearance and rats destroyed it. The giant moth needed old-growth forest – trees large enough to support its massive caterpillars for years. When Europeans cleared the lowland forests for pasture, they destroyed the caterpillar's habitat. No trees, no tunnels, no moths. At the same time, ship rats arrived. Rats climb. Rats hunt. Rats eat anything they can catch – including large, slow-flying moths. A 15-centimetre moth emerging at dusk is not a subtle target. It is a flying snack. The puriri moth survived because it is smaller, faster, and more adaptable. It can live in younger trees, smaller forests, more fragmented habitats. The giant moth could not. It needed the deep, dark, old-growth forests – the kind that no longer exist in New Zealand. By the 1930s, it was gone. The last specimen was probably collected by a naturalist who had no idea he was holding the final individual. He pinned it, labelled it, put it in a drawer. And the night forest fell silent. The night ghost is a ghost because it was always ghostly – seen only at twilight, fluttering between the trees, gone before you could focus your eyes. Now there is nothing to see. The forests are quieter, emptier, moth-less. We cut down its trees. Then we wondered why it left.