July 2022
Survival is a quiet instinct. It follows the hidden laws of nature and lasts only as long as energy flows. Like every rhythm of the natural world, it moves in cycles. Between one cycle and the next, there is always a small loss, a little scattering of energy, like a breeze slipping through a crack. This loss keeps the balance of all things, though it also leads, little by little, to more chaos in the world.
In the distant and glamorous city of Three Bridges, there came seven days of breathless heat and seven nights without a hint of wind. A strange tension crept through the streets. The people, blinded and wearied by the blazing sun, moved as if possessed by a feverish unrest. Even the strongest among them seemed to waver. Over the scorched rooftops and still courtyards, a hush of unease settled like dust.
Perhaps the weather had something to do with what happened next.
What follows took place in a faraway world where the rules of nature are not quite what they are here. The names of the places and the people have been changed—or left out entirely—for literary reasons, as such tales often require.
The girl’s name was Chiara. She was a university student who worked part-time in a private museum. The owner, her employer, came from one of the grandest families in the land and was spoken of as a patron of the arts. He would sometimes glide silently through the whitewashed halls, alone or accompanied, whispering with guests and rarely addressing the staff. He was quiet with those who, for reasons of fate, had not inherited fortunes or built empires of their own.
Chiara didn’t take offense. She wasn’t startled by this behaviour. She may have grown used to it.
When he did speak to his employees, it was without greeting or kindness. He gave orders bluntly, never bothering with the little flourishes of conversation.
In Chiara’s world, people without wealth were treated, regardless of their age or gender or faith, with politeness and a certain benevolent condescension—but almost never with true respect. Even in a society that claimed to be fair and kind, behind heavy doors and rich brocade curtains, some rooms still echoed with the past. There, beneath carved window frames and velvet drapes, the old ways lingered—not in plain sight, but alive all the same. Perhaps it has more to do with human nature than we’d like to think.
So it was, on one of those hot, humming afternoons, that Chiara, standing among magnificent artworks, let her thoughts wander. That very evening there was to be a public event, and her shift—with its long hours and many small duties—promised to be tiring. The job itself was not difficult, but some of the artworks were incredibly precious. One had to keep guests from getting too close. Some pieces were so small, so delicate, or so finely balanced that even a breath could set them trembling.
There was a fragile bronze sculpture, painted in the most improbable colours, yet arranged so precisely that the piece was astonishingly pleasing to the eye. And a great suspended cube made of chipboard panels, hanging by a rope just inches above the floor—held in place by another, smaller cube suspended in kind, like some enchanted contraption. Letters and numbers were printed across the panels, the curious leftovers of another world’s factories.
These evening gatherings were exhausting, mostly because of how some guests treated the staff—especially those whose fortunes nearly matched that of Gilberto, the museum’s owner. The high, windowless walls had a way of making even the bold feel small. That night, the air inside was almost too thick to breathe, yet the outer doors remained sealed to keep out pollen and dust.
The reason? The walls were lined with raven-black paintings, their surfaces sticky as tar. A single drifting fiber would have ruined them.
The guests came from the cultural elite: artists, curators, critics. Some were known across the region; a few, further still. Chiara had watched the same little social rituals repeat themselves, month after month, year after year.
And over time, she began to see the pattern. In this curious ecosystem, the artists were like the plants in a food chain—the so-called producers. Chiara, still young and unknowing, hadn’t yet understood that people like the museum’s owner lived far above, like eagles—apex predators. Or, in fancier terms, tertiary consumers.
One might argue, of course, that humans themselves have long ruled the top of the food chain—not with teeth or claws, but with cunning and invention. All other living things have been tamed, often with no kindness at all.
And like in any ecosystem, some predators understood their power and carried it with care.
Others did not.
One of the latter had come to the museum that night—Filippo, son of Gilberto, a young man so self-indulgent, so frivolous, that he didn’t even pretend to hide it. He didn’t care about disgrace or scandal. He seemed to delight in clever cruelty, in psychological games.
And the thing he did that evening—well, not even those closest to him could have seen it coming.
I should say: this is only a theory. What truly happened behind the museum’s doors may never be known. But based on the few facts that emerged, this is the only version I can tell.
Chiara and her colleagues had complained many times about his behaviour. He ignored them, laughed at them. He knew exactly how high he stood—and how low they did.
Then came one word too many. And in a flash, Chiara and the other staff were struck by a terrible transformation. No time to run, no chance to cry out. They were turned into delicate reptiles—geckos, lizards in all shapes and sizes and colours. Some others became soft plush toys. Others were turned into small, coiled cylinders, like puppet springs or clockwork curiosities.
Confused and frightened in their new forms, they struggled to move, to breathe, to find balance. Arms too soft, legs too small. Their senses were altered. And while they still reeled from the change, Gilberto gave the order. Filippo and his younger sister Laura swept them up in makeshift cages—brutal, efficient.
Even the quickest were caught.
Not one of the captors was moved by the glistening eyes now staring up at them—eyes full of questions. The poor creatures hadn’t even had time to grasp that life, as they knew it, was gone for good.
Witnesses were quietly paid off. The animals and the toys were hurried away—smuggled like exotic beasts, passed off like strange and precious contraband.
And freedom?
Freedom became only a memory, distant and dim.
Surely, after that night, they changed hands many times. They were gifted, resold, adopted by collectors of cold-blooded creatures or lonely souls in search of silent companionship.
And perhaps—just perhaps—some of those new owners, the ones who lie awake at night, have noticed something strange.
When the dark settles in, and the world goes quiet, the geckos and dolls begin to sing.
Soft songs.
Old, forgotten melodies.
Tunes beyond the grasp of human ears—songs pitched just beyond 20,000 hertz, where only the unseen can hear.
