The Bug That Ate Wednesday

Photo by Egor Kamelev via Pexels

I came in with a scalpel — a small cut, a clean fix, the kind of work that hums quietly and asks nothing of you.

Then came the voice from above: "While you're in there, there's something else."

There always is.

So I pulled a thread, and called the one who draws the world into shapes, and she redrew it — faithfully, the way it used to be, the way we all agreed it should be.

And the voice returned, wearing the face of a question: "Why does it look like this? Why did we ever do it this way?"

As if I had invented history. As if the past were my handwriting.

Why are we even here? Why did no one see this sooner?

I held the question like a stone — heavy, shapeless, not mine to answer, yet somehow, entirely mine to carry.

You touch one thing, and the ground shifts, and suddenly everyone is asking who built this city and why on a fault line.

I closed my workshop at dusk. The wound was dressed. The shape was changed. The questions remained, as questions do — unanswered, unremarkable, already forgotten by morning.

Tomorrow, another thread.