Dead End Job

The empty call centre was nondescript—fluorescents, cracked plastic chairs, off-brand biscuits in the break room. “Legacy Enquiries”, the contract said. Dan had been told not to worry too much about the name. “Just answer the phone,” the text message said. “Be patient. Be kind. Some of these callers are confused.”

And they were.

The first call came at 2:13 a.m.

“Is it cold?” a woman asked. Her voice was thin, as if it had to travel a long way.

Dan stared at his monitor. No name, no number—just static.

“I—I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Is it cold? Where you are? I remember cold. I miss it, I think.”

She hung up before he could ask more.

The next call, someone asked how long it took a body to decompose. The line went dead when Dan mentioned Google. Then came the man asking whether his cat had forgiven him. Another wanted to know if anyone still made treacle tart like his mum used to.

He took notes, made spreadsheets, convinced himself this was a social experiment or some immersive counselling gig. But the patterns emerged.

None of the callers gave their names.

All of them had questions. Never greetings, never small talk. Always one question.

“Was it my fault?”

“Does anyone remember my voice?”

“Was I ever really loved?”

The night grew heavier. The air around his desk took on a damp, stone-like smell. Dan tried to quit—but the moment he drafted the email, his phone rang.

“Please,” said a boy’s voice. “Don’t go. We don’t have anyone else.”

Dan didn’t send the email.

Three hours in, he stopped keeping time altogether. His calls were longer now, more focused. He began to recognise voices—repeats. Some were angry. Some wept. Some just waited in silence after he’d answered, as though holding the call gave them weight.

And then, his own phone rang.

“Dan,” said a voice he hadn’t heard since he was nine. “It’s your sister.”

Carla had died in a lake. Slipped under the ice. No body was ever recovered.

“Why didn’t you come?” the voice asked.

Dan wanted to hang up. His hands wouldn’t move.

“I waited. It got dark,” said Carla’s voice. “Mum said you’d come back with the sled. But you never came.”

“I didn’t know,” Dan whispered. “I didn’t know you went back out. I’m sorry… Carla.

Silence.

“It’s okay. I just wanted to know if you remembered me.”

The call disconnected.

After that, the calls changed. They were easier to understand, more lucid. A girl asked what snow tasted like. A man wanted to hear a lullaby. One caller just asked Dan to breathe, slowly, so they could “remember what lungs felt like”.

Dan stayed.

He answered every call.

Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he just listened while the voice raged against their unfinished life.

In the morning, he walked home as the sun bled into the sky, the weight of a hundred regrets dissolving with the night.

Instructions for Being Human

// initialise body → if heartbeat == true, proceed

// else: wait

1. Waking

Try not to panic. The light will hurt.

So will gravity, noise, the realisation that none of this is optional.

2. Skin

It is not armour. It will not keep out the world.

3. Emotions

These will override logic. Frequently.

You may want to uninstall.

You can’t.

4. Connections

People arrive unfinished.

Do not try to complete them.

They will resent you.

Love them anyway, or not. Both will hurt.

5. Hunger

Feed more than the stomach.

You will hunger for touch, for purpose, for quiet.

Feed carefully.

Excess = corruption.

6. Joy (beta feature)

May arrive unannounced:

a smell, a chord progression, the way a stranger says “take care” and almost means it.

7. Loneliness.exe

This runs in the background. Always.

Ignore it if you can.

Or listen. Sometimes it whispers useful things.

8. Mortality

Yes.

(This is working as intended.)

9. Error Handling

You will break.

You will be rebuilt by time, or other humans, or not at all.

That’s not failure.

That’s versioning.

10. End Process

Do not attempt to understand everything.

Do not wait for perfection.

Begin anyway.

// commit changes

// save draft

// run again

Local Church Now Accepting Confessions via QR Code

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—please see attached spreadsheet.”

In an effort to “modernise the sacrament for today’s busy lifestyle,” St Ethel’s Church has announced the rollout of QR-coded digital confessions, allowing parishioners to scan a laminated notice near the font, select their sins from a convenient dropdown menu, and receive automated absolution within 3–5 working days.

Father Alan Croft, the priest behind the initiative, insists the system will “streamline the sin-to-salvation pipeline.”

“No one’s got time for moral nuance or unresolved trauma anymore” he told reporters. “Now it’s just click, confess, and carry on.”

Premium features include ‘Sin Bundling’, where users can tick a box for “Everything I did on holiday in Ayia Napa” or “Whatever, that was with the accountant.” Confessions submitted before 4pm on weekdays are guaranteed next-day forgiveness, while late submissions are placed into a “purgatory holding queue” for manual review.

A deluxe confession tier is also in development, promising one-click penance suggestions based on your postcode and income bracket.

Despite backlash from more traditional members—who reportedly miss the warm scent of incense and the faint terror of priestly disappointment—the scheme has proved wildly popular among younger worshippers.

“It’s brilliant,” said congregant Grace, 29. “I sin on the go, and now I can be absolved on the go. I just tap my phone and bam, my soul’s back in beta.”

Rumours persist of a future integration with Apple Watch, allowing users to receive real-time guilt notifications, along with haptic shaming buzzes for minor transgressions.

When asked if digital forgiveness cheapens the solemnity of the act, Father Croft paused, shrugged, and said:

“We’ve been taking cheques since 1987. This is just evolution.”

Written Off

The letter arrived on a Thursday.

Plain white envelope, no return address. Inside, a single line on crisp paper:

We regret to inform you that you have been declared deceased.

Daniel read it twice, then laughed that brittle, half-afraid laugh you make when the world throws up nonsense. He checked his pulse. Felt the thrum in his throat, the warmth in his hands. Alive. Definitely alive.

He set it aside.

But that night, his bank card stopped working. The next day, his office pass denied him entry. Emails bounced. His name vanished from company records.

At the council office, the assistant squinted at her screen. “Strange,” she murmured, frowning. “It says here… deceased.”

That night, his key didn’t fit his front door.

Through the window, he saw his wife on the sofa, laughing with a man he didn’t know. When he knocked, she didn’t turn. When he shouted, no one stirred.

His reflection in the window wavered, then disappeared into smoke.

Godzilla’s Yoga Class

Godzilla has been feeling… tense.

Yes, the tail-smashing, skyline-crushing, thermonuclear tantrums look dramatic, but they’re really just the result of tight hip flexors and unresolved emotional trauma. Tokyo understands. At this point, they just evacuate when the sirens go off and leave a little aromatherapy gift basket on the bay.

But the rampages aren’t doing it for him anymore. He’s tired. He’s molting irregularly. His scales look dull. The last time he screamed into the ocean, a passing whale told him to be quiet.

So he signs up for a yoga class.

It’s awkward at first. The room is too small. The mats are too flammable. The teacher, Cassandra, is incredibly brave and/or emotionally detached. She greets him with a soft “namaste,” which he accidentally mimics at 132 decibels, blowing out the windows.

He tries downward dog. It triggers a small earthquake in Hokkaido.

By week three, he’s noticeably calmer. No screaming for three days. No tail swipes. He only destroyed half a commuter bridge last Tuesday, and that was to rescue a cat.

Cassandra says his third chakra is “absolutely wild,” and he takes that as a compliment.

At the end of class, everyone lies in corpse pose. For once, Godzilla doesn’t dread the silence.

There’s a pigeon perched on his nose.

He doesn’t eat it.

Progress.

Artificial Irritation

In 2025, the world hit Peak AI—not just in technology, but in marketing. Suddenly, everything needed “AI” slapped on it, regardless of relevance, function, or reality.

Boardrooms became feverish warzones:

“Janet, where’s the Al in our shampoo?”

“Er… it foams… intelligently?”

“Good enough. Rebrand it: LathrAI.”

An app promising “AI for finding the best AI” launched—only to be exposed as three interns frantically googling product reviews.

Even the local bakery joined in, claiming “AI-optimised sourdough fermentation”. When asked, the owner admitted, “It’s just my nan’s old recipe.”

Meanwhile, genuine Al researchers watched in horror. Dr. Anita Sharma, a machine learning expert, posted wearily: “No, your scented candle isn’t ‘AI-infused’. Please stop.”

But no one cared. Shareholders demanded “AI” in the name, or they’d dump stock. Startups got funded only if they mentioned neural networks, such as for products like AIToothpick (“adapts to gum contours”) or SmartAI-Shirt (“predictive comfort fabric”).

And yet, amid this AI-fuelled circus, one small local coffee shop stood defiant. Its sign read:

“We Make Coffee. No AI. Just Dave.”

They sold out every day.

Unmended

Each night the house smooths its skin. 

Cracked plaster seals, paint blushes fresh, 

floorboards remember how not to groan. 

 

In the kitchen, tiles reattach themselves, 

grout knitting seamless as if no pan 

was ever thrown, no water ever spilled. 

 

The window we shattered last winter

glimmers whole by dawn,

its glass cold as a withheld word.

 

Upstairs, the mirror forgets

the arguments it has reflected.

But your eyes do not.

 

My joints ache in a language

the house does not speak.

Your hands tremble, unplastered, unpainted.

 

By morning, the house is immaculate,

a museum of absence.

We move through it

like old ghosts,

unmended.

A Candle for the Unnamed

Here’s to the child I never named,

the call I never made,

the song I hummed once,

then forgot.

 

To the painting left in my head,

streaked with colours no hand

ever mixed.

To the house with the yellow door

we never lived in,

the city I passed by,

the stranger I almost loved.

 

There is a cemetery

not marked on any map,

where all the unlived lives lie:

the apology unsaid,

the poem unwritten,

the “yes” I swallowed,

the “no” I let rot on my tongue.

 

I light a candle tonight

for the almosts,

for the flicker before the flame,

for the ghosts

with no names to answer to.

 

Somewhere, they bloom—

delicate as breath,

wide as regret.

The Lit Fuse

Across the street, she’s talking to a friend on her phone, sunlight threading gold through her hair.

It’s her. Always her.

In Rome, she was Lucia—plague took her. In Warsaw, Anka—a soldier’s bullet. In Kyoto, Mai—his jealous rival’s knife. This life, she’s Eleanor. And he remembers.

The memory came back two days ago after he fell down the stairs: a rush, a drowning, all the lives folding into one sharp point. Names, faces, the taste of their last kiss, the weight of their last breath. And the terrible certainty: his love is the fuse.

He watches her laugh, the corner of her mouth lifting just so. His body aches to go to her. But the pattern’s clear now, unmistakable. Loving her means losing her.

She glances across—catches his gaze. Something flickers across her face. Recognition? No. Just polite curiosity. Not yet.

He tells himself to look away.

He does.

He convinces himself to take a breath, to turn, to walk.

But then—

She’s in the road, fumbling with her bag, phone slipping from her hand. A car barrels down the lane, too fast, too close.

He’s running before he knows.

The air smashes from his lungs as he yanks her back, arms tight around her waist, the car blaring past in a blur of metal and hot wind. She stumbles against him, breathless, eyes wide, face inches from his.

“Thank you,” she gasps, dazed. “I… I didn’t see…”

He lets go. He should step back. Should vanish into the crowd, slip free before the knot tightens.

But it’s too late.

She’s looking at him now, really looking, brow furrowed—like she’s searching some half-remembered name, some shape in a dream.

And just like that, the fuse is lit.

Twelve Minutes

He stood before the machine, hands in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the brass slot. Above it, instructions glowed in soft blue light: 

INSERT GRIEF ITEM. PROCESSING TIME: 12 MINUTES. YOU WILL FEEL LESS. 

His fingers closed around the ring in his pocket. A slim gold band, worn thin on one side. He had kept it for three years now, turning it over like a prayer stone, sometimes pressing it to his lips when no one was looking. 

Twelve minutes. 

Around him, the hall was quiet but not empty. A woman sat on a bench, blank-eyed, a crumpled sock in her lap. A teenager leaned against the far wall, a cracked phone case in hand. Neither looked at him. 

He pulled the ring out and rolled it between thumb and forefinger. In the machine’s polished surface, his reflection wavered—a man, growing older with grief like a weight stitched under his skin. 

Twelve minutes. 

His hand hovered. If he let it take the ring, would it take the smell of her hair, the memory of her laugh as they painted the bedroom, the way she whispered his name when half-asleep? Or only the ache—the sharp, sudden stabs, the hollow mornings, the dreams that dissolved into salt on waking?

The woman at the bench rose. She walked past, her eyes watery, glazed with traces of red. She dropped the sock into the machine, paused briefly, then walked away.

His fingers closed. Slowly, deliberately, he put the ring back in his pocket.

The machine waited.

He turned and left.

The Man and His Moon

There was a young man in a hat, 

Who fell quite in love with the Moon; 

He courted her nightly with howls in the night, 

And serenades played on a horn. 

 

He sang, “Oh my lunar delight! 

Oh roundest, resplendent balloon! 

Come down from the sky, and we’ll merrily tie 

A knot by the end of the June!” 

 

So he built a vast ladder of cheese, 

(With the help of a wayward baboon), 

And up he did climb through the highest of clouds, 

To wed his bewildering Moon. 

 

But alas! when he reached for her hand, 

His fingers met nothing but glow— 

For the Moon, though she gleams, is made wholly of beams, 

And cannot be met far below. 

 

Now he floats in a coat through the sky, 

With a pocket of onions and rye; 

And the people below shake their heads as they go, 

At the man who made love to the sky.

Return to Us

We borrowed the stars— 
calcium for our teeth, 
iron for our blood, 
carbon laced in each breath we press against the dark. 

We walk, brittle and shining, 
wearing the debris of old collisions, 
the soft ash of suns 
that burned themselves out long “before” 
the word meant anything at all. 

In the marrow, in the nailbed, 
in the white gleam of an eye catching light— 
the stars pulse their call: 
Return to us. 

We are brief trustees of brilliance, 
temporary vessels of a flame 
we did not strike, 
cannot keep. 

One day, 
when the chest quiets, 
we will give back each atom, 
scatter them to dark soil, to sky, 
to dust adrift through things unnamed. 

And somewhere, 
in the cold ache of a young galaxy, 
the raw gold of our bones 
will vibrate into shape again.

Dominion Point

No planes fly over Dominion Point anymore. Not after the last one vanished from radar at 60,000 feet and reappeared, empty, three weeks later in a rice field in Mozambique—fuselage intact, every seat belt neatly fastened, every passenger gone. 

It had once been a logistics hub. When Sable Dynamics towed their first modules into international waters—a floating research array powered by autonomous reactors and patrolled by drones—they called it supply chain decentralisation. 

Now it is a vertical reef of steel and ceramic, rising fifteen storeys above the waterline, though no official map shows it, and satellite feeds “glitch” whenever focused on that quadrant of the ocean.

No one is sure what happens inside. But everyone knows who sits at the centre: Victor Sable.

The AI wasn’t his idea. He didn’t even understand how it worked. It had been built in secret by the company’s elite Zurich tech lab—code meant to analyse markets, predict unrest, flag leverage points in global infrastructure.

One day, it started making suggestions. Two weeks later, it started making decisions.

Victor didn’t stop it. He listened. It told him which ports to buy. Which pipelines to rupture. When to crash the euro. When to secure Argentina’s clean water. When to trigger drought in Yemen using patent-locked climate tech.

And it was always right. Not sentient. Not alive. Just ruthlessly accurate—a blind god of pure correlation.

Dominion Point grew in secret, stitched together from repurposed tankers, 3D-printed shells, and scavenged orbital tech. By the time the world noticed, it was already too late.

Every attempt to intervene—cyberwarfare, drones, a secret airstrike—was effortlessly defeated. Instantly dismantled by AI-designed picobots, mass-produced in cavernous factories beneath the seabed to swarm unseen around Dominion Point at the level of an atom.

Victor’s feed broadcasts endlessly from a minimalist throne room, lit by synthetic dawn. He is always there, gaze vacant, as the AI presents him with decisions.

His voice is never raised. When the World Bank collapsed, no facial muscle responded. When Brazil split into corporate zones, he hardly moved. When eight million were displaced by water wars after “unforeseen disruptions” to dam networks in Central Asia, he smiled faintly. Then his head turned slowly to the camera and he said:

“This is not coercion. It’s freedom at scale.”

Now, borders are meaningless. And CEOs kneel where diplomats once stood, while the AI continues its computations.

The Hours

I said I would buy the flowers myself—

Step into the morning, become someone else.

The day is a ribbon, the sky’s like a bell,

And the hours chime softly, though no one can tell.

I pass through the sunlight, all lilac and glass,

But I’m always becoming the girl I once was.

Who am I now, in this glitter of air?

The city forgets me—yet I’m still there.

Not quite the hostess, nor quite the wife—

Just a breath between moments, the shape of a life.

And the hours—they slip,

Like rain from the wrist.

Like parties and petals,

Like kisses half-missed.

Was I ever a self?

Was I only the light

That danced on the wall

Then vanished from sight?

There’s something in June that is just like a wound—

All beauty and sorrow, entangled, attuned.

Peter once loved me—his knife of a gaze—

But I chose the safe harbour, not passion’s blaze.

Yet even now, as the bell strikes the day,

I wonder what girl he saw walk away.

I gather my guests, I smile and I stir—

But who is this woman they take me for?

A thread through a drawing-room, always composed,

Yet aching with silence where nothing is closed.

And the hours—they slip,

Like rain from the wrist.

Like parties and petals,

Like kisses half-missed.

Was I ever a self?

Was I only the light

That danced on the wall

Then vanished from sight?

I think of the boy who jumped to the air,

Fell through the sun like a prayer unanswered.

Septimus, stranger—your shadow is mine,

Both of us slipping the ropes of time.

The soul is a secret, it does not grow old—

It burns and it flickers, it never is told.

And the hours—they pass,

But leave no trace.

I gather them all

In silence and grace.

The self is a mirror,

The self is a sound—

The toll of Big Ben

And the hush underground.

Mayor Biscuit

Nobody quite remembers who wrote Biscuit the Labrador on the ballot. It might have been Daisy from the bakery, or old Stan who thinks politics peaked in 1972. Either way, the dog got seventy-three votes. Enough to win.

The incumbent, Councillor Dobbins, demanded a recount. The ballot officer, who had already started on her lunch, refused. “It’s done, Geoff,” she said, biting into a cheese and cucumber sandwich. “The dog won. Try dignity, for once.”

Biscuit, unaware of his victory, celebrated by rolling in something unspeakable behind the co-op. The local paper ran the headline:

BISCUIT ELECTED IN SHOCK LANDSLIDE. VOTERS ‘HAD NO WORSE OPTIONS’.

At the first council meeting, things were tense. Dobbins refused to vacate the mayoral chair, so Biscuit peed on it. No one argued after that. The chair was bleached. Biscuit got a tartan cushion.

Oddly, the meetings improved. Biscuit sat quietly, tail thumping occasionally, eyes wide with mute optimism. When discussions grew heated, he’d let out a soft, judicial woof, and everyone shut up.

Minutes were quicker. Budgets were passed. People stopped yelling about bins.

His approval ratings soared—82% by mid-year. Villagers said things like “He’s got presence” and “Finally, a politician who isn’t all talk.” Even the dissenters struggled. “Yes, but he’s just a dog,” said Dobbins bitterly on local radio. “A very good dog,” countered the host.

Biscuit was eventually awarded the ceremonial chain, specially adapted into a collar. He chewed it once, then wore it proudly.

A journalist from the national press came to write a piece. “It’s performance politics,” she sniffed. “Pure pageantry.” She then watched Biscuit chase off a developer trying to bulldoze the cricket pitch. The story ran under the headline:

BARKING MAD OR BRILLIANT?

By Christmas, Biscuit had won Parish Leader of the Year, and the council had received two grant offers to study “non-verbal governance models.”

He celebrated with a new squeaky toy and a sausage from Daisy, who confided, “You’re better than all of ‘em.”

No one ever replaced him.

He served three terms. Then, upon his peaceful passing, the council held a ten-minute silence—broken only by the squeak of his favourite toy, gently pressed by the village clerk.

Dobbins ran again. But lost to a goat.

Random Thoughts

I’m a night owl, an early bird, and a ghost haunting the hours in between.

My dark night of the soul has been lodging with me for years now. To be fair, it does the washing up sometimes, but it really ought to start looking for somewhere else.

Consciousness is the relation between inner and outer, observer and observed. It’s not just the result of matter interacting; it is the loop where the distinction between subject and object folds in on itself.

Meaning arises because the universe, through us, temporarily has a mirror. That mirror gives rise to art, ethics, despair, beauty, absurdity—all the phenomena that define human experience.

The fact that we seek meaning—and can construct it—suggests our role is not passive. We’re feedback. And perhaps, just perhaps, that feedback is what allows reality to mean at all.

What We Choose

Every mark you make, word you speak, or choice you act upon is a vote for the kind of world that will exist tomorrow. Culture, politics, ecosystems, economies—these are not fixed structures. They are the accumulation of our daily decisions.

You are the mechanism. A sculptor shapes stone; a society is shaped by millions of tiny gestures—how we treat strangers, where we place our attention, what we choose to support, what beauty we cherish.

If you choose cynicism, you strengthen it. If you choose generosity, you plant it like seed.

Despair whispers that you are powerless. But that’s a lie peddled by those who profit from your apathy. In truth, everything depends on your attention—what you notice, what you nurture, what you refuse to let die.

You don’t need to change the whole world. Just stop feeding the version you don’t believe in. That alone is the beginning of something else.

And if enough of us do that—then the world shifts. Not all at once. But unmistakably.

The Apocalypse Rebrand

The Four Horsemen sat awkwardly in a WeWork conference room in Shoreditch, each nursing a lukewarm oat milk latte and silently resenting the presence of beanbags.

“We need to talk branding,” said Ashley, the PR rep, flipping open her MacBook.

War cracked his knuckles. “Branding? We are the end of days. Our names are our brands.”

Ashley didn’t blink. “And yet you’re being meme’d into irrelevance. Someone called Pestilence ‘COVID’s weird uncle’.”

Pestilence sniffled. “Well, I am, technically—”

“Not the point,” she snapped. “Let’s begin with Famine.”

Famine, gaunt and radiating Victorian orphan chic, offered a withering smile. “Do enlighten me.”

“‘Famine’ is outdated. Triggering. We’re rebranding you as Intermittent Fasting. Think: wellness, restraint, minimalism.”

“I kill entire crops,” Famine hissed.

Ashley tapped her screen. “So does clean eating. You’re very on-trend.”

Famine sank back, muttering something about quinoa.

“Next, Pestilence. We’re calling you Airborne Wellness Influencer. You’ve gone viral—literally—so lean into it. We’ll say you offer ‘transformational respiratory experiences’.”

“I gave a pope bubonic plague,” Pestilence mumbled.

“Exactly! Disruption! You’re the Uber of mucus. Now—War.”

He leaned forward, eyes glowing faintly. “I incinerated Babylon. I smashed the gates of Troy. I turned a continent to ash.”

Ashley held up a hand. “Yes, love that energy. But you’re coming off… toxic. You’ll now be Conflict Facilitator—focusing on personal growth through dynamic resolution.”

“I sunder realms.”

“And now you’ll be doing it via team-building retreats. Imagine: axe-throwing, trust falls, moderate bloodshed.”

War considered this.

Ashley turned to Death. He was skeletal, but impeccably dressed, with the timeless calm of someone who’d deleted empires before breakfast.

She hesitated. “Now you… you’re iconic. But… intimidating. So we’ve gone with Life Coach (Advanced).”

Death remained silent.

“We’re also removing the horse imagery. Feels too… equestrian. Instead: e-scooters. Sustainable. Disruptive. Uber for oblivion.”

The four stared at her.

“Look,” Ashley said. “the world’s ending, but it has to feel like a lifestyle pivot. We need curated doom. Apocalypse with a vibe. You’ll be verified, blue-ticked, live-streamed.”

Death stood. “This is obscene.”

Ashley gave him a tight smile. “And yet the algorithm loves it.”

She left the presentation playing behind her: stock footage of fire, collapsing cities, and stylish young people dancing on rooftops as meteors fell.

The Unlived Lives

There was a child who might have danced 

barefoot in the summer dusk, 

her laughter rising with the fireflies, 

her life humming something soft in the meadow— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have asked 

a thousand questions about the stars, 

kept his soul awake with whys, 

believed in answers like bedtime stories— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have painted 

oceans on the inside of his walls, 

made ships from crayons and faith, 

and sailed beyond the reach of grief—

but never did. 

There was a child who might have wept 

only for broken toys, 

whose wounds healed with time, 

whose nightmares ended with morning light— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have learned 

the weight of kindness, 

how a single held hand could keep the dark at bay, 

how not to be afraid to live— 

but never did.

And the world, 

stone-faced and busy, 

folded them into its silence— 

as seeds in pockets, 

waiting for ground soft enough 

to grow again.

Still

The kettle screamed—

but no one moved.

She stood at the sink,

hands in cold water,

not washing, not—

“It’s not that I…”

(pause)

“—never mind.”

 

The calendar still says June.

(He went in April.)

No one took it down.

No one—

There’s a photo face-down

on the dresser.

You don’t ask why.

She doesn’t

…explain.

 

At dinner:

chairs scraped.

Forks grazed plates.

Chewing,

swallowing,

nothing else.

You almost said

“Do you miss him?”

but instead asked

for the salt.

 

It was already right in front of you.

Words crossed out.

Sentences left half-born.

Ink bled

where shoulders once trembled.

No one cries.

No one says

why.

No one says

his name.

 

Still,

the house listens.

It Was Perfect

He found the room on a Thursday, behind a wall that wasn’t there yesterday. No hinges, no latch—just a clean rectangle in the plaster. When he pressed his hand against it, it gave like skin.

Inside, the space was blank. Pale. Airless. But the moment he said, “Light,” a golden globe bloomed on the ceiling, humming warmly. “Chair,” he muttered next, and one unfolded from nothing—plush, deep, exactly like his grandfather’s old recliner.

He laughed then. And the room laughed back.

Every visit left him calmer. Sharper. He’d say, “Peace,” and the room would wrap around him like a weighted blanket. “Love,” and a version of Laura would appear—softer than real life, wordless, adoring.

He lost a weekend once. Thought it had only been a few hours. But he was smiling again, wasn’t he? Eating. Sleeping. Creating.

The room didn’t judge. The room understood.

Soon, the outside became unbearable. The clatter of dishes. Laura’s voice, asking if he was okay. Her eyes, heavy with suspicion.

He tried to explain. “There’s this space, and in it, I can be—”

“You’re not in anything,” she snapped. “You’re out. Out of time, out of reach. Out of your head.”

She started locking up his laptop. Cancelling his calls. He’d sneak into the chamber just to breathe.

One day, she was gone. No note. Just her scent clinging to the pillows.

He didn’t search.

He simply went back into the room and said: “Bring her back.”

She returned, lips soft, eyes vacant, looping the same three sentences: “I’m glad you’re okay.” “Everything’s fine now.” “Let’s not talk about it.”

He cried in her lap. She smiled, stroked his hair. Over and over.

But the room began to falter.

The warmth dimmed. The conjured Laura stuttered. The furniture softened, drooped like wax in the sun. He told the room to fix it. It didn’t. He shouted. Screamed.

The room echoed him back, word for word, louder, until his voice came back distorted, cracked—Peace… peace… PEACE…—like mocking laughter through a drainpipe.

He told it to stop. It didn’t.

The outside world crumbled.

Letters piled at the door, some in red. The electricity flickered. Food vanished from the fridge. Mold rose in patches like bruises on the wallpaper. But he stayed inside.

The room shrank.

At first, a metre or two at a time. Then inches. His chair dissolved. The golden light browned to sickly yellow. The air grew thick, cloying, like burnt sugar and rot.

He coughed. Asked for “Fresh air.”

Nothing.

“Help.”

Silence.

“Let me out.”

The walls pressed in. Cold. Damp. Close.

He screamed until his voice cracked, then whimpered nonsense to the dark. A child, alone in a box of wishes.

Outside, the neighbours assumed he’d moved. The flat was silent, the curtains never opened. Someone reported a smell.

When the council finally broke in, they found only decay.

Mould, filth, and the body of a man in a foetal curl—emaciated, eyes open.

On the wall behind him, written in something brown and flaking:

“It was perfect.”