I’ve always felt like there was something just out of reach, a thread hanging loose in the tapestry of the world. As an artist, I’ve spent my life trying to pull at that thread, hoping to see the bigger picture—to understand what ties it all together, and why, in moments of stillness, it feels like someone is watching.
Maybe that’s the curse of being an artist: searching for meaning in the patterns, wondering if they were put there on purpose or if the universe just happened to spill its paint in a way that makes sense.
I was thinking about this late one night, staring at a blank ceiling, an empty canvas, the silence around me broken only by the creak of the house and the drip of a faucet. I’d been chasing an idea for weeks—a piece that could capture the strange balance of chaos and design I saw in the world. But every time I tried to sculpt it, it felt incomplete, like I was sketching a shadow of something I didn’t fully understand.
Frustrated, I got out of bed, letting my gaze drift to the street below. It was quiet outside. The air felt heavy. It felt like something was about to happen. The streetlight across the street flickered, casting long, trembling shadows on the sidewalk. For a moment, I thought I saw one of the shadows move—not with the jitter of a lightbulb on the fritz, but deliberately, like it had slipped out of sync with the world.
I blinked, and it was gone. But something tugged at me, the same way a half-forgotten melody lingers on the edge of your memory.
That’s when I noticed the crack.
It was barely visible at first, a thin, jagged line winding through the brick wall across the street. It didn’t look like an ordinary crack. There was something alive about it, something wrong. The bricks on either side of it seemed to ripple, their edges softening, like they were melting into each other.
I stepped back from the window, heart pounding in my chest. But even as panic bubbled up, I felt a strange pull, a whisper in the back of my mind telling me to look closer.
I don’t know what possessed me to grab my coat and head outside, but the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of that crack. Up close, it shimmered faintly. I reached out, hesitating for just a moment before my fingers brushed its edge.
The world shifted.
It was subtle at first, like the sensation of waking up in a dream, but then the ground seemed to tilt beneath me. The crack widened, revealing a sliver of light that didn’t belong to this world—warm and green and impossibly alive. Before I could pull my hand back, it pulled me in.
I stumbled forward, and everything changed.
Gone were the quiet streets and flickering streetlights. I was standing in a tunnel that seemed to stretch forever in both directions, its walls a kaleidoscope of roots and gears, glowing softly with a light that pulsed like a heartbeat. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the hum of machinery, the murmur of voices speaking a language I couldn’t understand.
And then I saw them.
The caretakers.
They didn’t notice me at first, busy with their tasks, moving with the efficiency of stagehands setting the scene for a play. They had humanoid shapes but skin the deep green of a forest, their limbs long and fluid, their eyes glowing faintly as they worked. I stood frozen, afraid to breathe, afraid to disrupt whatever fragile balance I’d just stepped into.
But then one of them looked up.
Their eyes locked with mine, and in that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of being seen—not just noticed, but truly seen, as if this being could read the entire story of my life in a single glance.
And then, against all odds, they smiled.
The caretaker’s smile was disarming, almost human, yet it carried a warmth that made me feel like I was being welcomed into a place I was never supposed to know existed. They tilted their head slightly, as if studying me, and then glanced around, perhaps checking to see if anyone else had noticed me.
I wanted to speak, to ask a million questions, but my throat felt dry, and my tongue felt heavier than it should. Before I could muster the courage, the caretaker moved toward me, their steps almost floating, silent and fluid.
“Curious,” they said, their voice soft and layered, like a chord played on an instrument I couldn’t name. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I managed to stammer, “I—I didn’t mean to—”
They raised a hand to stop me, and I noticed the intricate patterns on their skin, like vines etched into emerald. “Few ever do.”
I wasn’t sure if I should feel reassured or terrified by that. I glanced behind me, expecting to see the crack I’d come through, but it was gone. The tunnel stretched endlessly in both directions, its walls glowing with that strange, pulsing light.
The caretaker followed my gaze. “The way back isn’t so simple,” they said. Their voice carried no malice, just an undeniable finality.
My heart sank. “What is this place?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
They studied me for a moment before answering. “The backstage,” they said simply, as if it explained everything.
When I didn’t respond, they gestured around us. “The systems, the connections, the… mechanisms, I suppose you’d call them. Everything that keeps your world running smoothly. This is where it’s managed.”
“Managed?” I echoed, my mind struggling to keep up. “You mean… like a stage crew?”
The caretaker’s lips curled into what I could only describe as an amused smirk. “If that helps you understand.” They turned and began walking down the tunnel, glancing back at me. “Come. You’ll see.”
I hesitated, every instinct telling me to stay put, but the pull of curiosity was stronger than fear. I followed, my footsteps echoing faintly against the floor, which seemed to shift between stone, metal, and something softer, like the hard rubber of playground mats.
As we walked, the caretaker began to explain. “Your world is… delicate,” they said. “So many moving parts, so many variables. If left to its own devices, it would collapse under its own chaos.”
I frowned. “So you’re… what? Fixing it?”
“Not fixing,” they replied, their tone almost reverent. “Maintaining. Guiding. Ensuring balance. The visible stage must run as it was designed.”
“And who designed it?” I asked, the question tumbling out before I could stop myself.
The caretaker paused, turning to face me. Their glowing eyes seemed to dim slightly, as if I’d touched on something they didn’t want to answer. “That’s a question we don’t ask,” they said. “And one you shouldn’t, either.”
We continued in silence for a moment, and I began to notice details in the tunnel—small machines whirring softly, their gears spinning in perfect rhythm; plants that seemed to grow and retract as we passed, as if they were watching us.
Finally, the tunnel opened into a vast chamber, and my breath caught in my throat.
It was like stepping into the control room of the universe. The walls were lined with glowing panels, each displaying a fragment of the world above—oceans rolling under moonlight, a child laughing in a sunlit park, a storm brewing on the horizon. In the center of the room stood a massive, intricate structure, like a tree made of light and machinery, its branches stretching endlessly into the darkness above.
The caretaker gestured toward it. “This is the Nexus,” they said. “The heart of it all. Every decision, every ripple, every moment—it all flows through here.”
I approached cautiously, my mind racing. “This is… incredible,” I said, more to myself than to the caretaker.
“It’s more than incredible,” they replied, their voice softening. “It’s fragile. And you, human, are a danger to it.”
I turned to them, startled. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” they interrupted, their expression unreadable. “But your presence here changes things. The visible stage is designed to function without interference. And yet…”
They hesitated, as if weighing a difficult decision. Finally, they sighed, a sound that carried both frustration and resolve. “You’ve seen too much. And now, we must decide what to do with you.”
[It’s unusual for me to write fiction. This story began as a vivid dream I felt compelled to write down. As I delved deeper into it, I realized how much I wanted it to be true—our world cared for by unseen custodians, quietly repairing and maintaining what we, in our fragility, are so often breaking.]