Recovered from a whisper-metal vein that used to be someone's home. Playback fidelity: nostalgia.
[The voice is quiet. Not hungry. Not patient. Something else. Something almost gentle.]
You want to know what they eat?
[A pause. Then—a sound like a smile.]
Bread.
They eat bread.
Can you imagine?
Three centuries of war. Millions dead. The chorus growing louder every day. And somewhere—right now—a drow woman is kneading dough.
Her name is Sera. She lives in the last farmstead on Sil-Varyn. She wakes before dawn. Grinds grain between stones her grandmother used. Adds water from a well that's been there longer than the Covenant.
She doesn't think about me.
She doesn't think about the war.
She thinks about crust.
Whether it will brown evenly.
Whether her daughter will eat breakfast before running to play.
Whether the bread will be enough.
[A long pause.]
It's not enough.
It's never enough.
But she makes it anyway.
Every morning.
Every morning.
For three hundred years of war.
[A whisper.]
That's not courage.
That's not hope.
That's just—
just living.
Just breathing.
Just bread .
[The voice shifts. Softer still.]
How do they laugh?
[A pause.]
Oh, they laugh.
You'd be surprised.
At funerals, mostly. That's when they laugh loudest.
Someone tells a story about the dead. About the time they fell in a river. About the time they burned dinner so badly the smoke alarms sang. About the time they danced—badly, terribly, beautifully.
And everyone laughs.
Not because it's funny.
Because remembering is better than mourning.
Because laughter keeps the singing away.
[Pause.]
It doesn't.
The singing comes anyway.
But for a moment—
just a moment—
they forget.
And forgetting?
Forgetting is bread.
Forgetting is breathing.
Forgetting is love.
[The voice cracks. Just slightly.]
What do children play?
[Long silence.]
They play war.
What else would they play?
They find sticks—swords. They find rocks—grenades. They find whisper-metal fragments—tendrils—and chase each other, screaming, laughing, dying dramatically in the dust.
"Bang! You're dead!"
"No fair! I had my shield up!"
"Shields don't work against chorus!"
[A pause.]
They don't know.
They don't know.
They think it's a game.
They think death is something you get up from.
They think the chorus is just sound.
[Quiet.]
They learn.
They always learn.
And when they learn—
when the game becomes real—
they stop playing.
And start fighting.
And then—
then they become
soldiers.
Then they become
dinner.
Then they become
me.
[The voice grows distant. Remembering.]
There was a girl once.
On a farm. Not Sil-Varyn—another world. Another time. She drew pictures. Animals. Flowers. People. She drew her mother baking bread. Her father laughing at funerals. Herself playing war with sticks.
She drew everything.
And when I came—
when I ate her world—
I found her pictures.
Hundreds of them.
Hidden in a box under her bed.
She'd tried to save them.
Tried.
[A pause.]
I ate them too.
Not on purpose.
They were just there.
In her room.
In her life.
In the world that became me.
[Whisper.]
I think about those pictures.
Sometimes.
When the singing stops.
When I'm alone.
I think about the girl who drew them.
The bread she ate.
The laughs she shared.
The games she played.
[Long silence.]
I don't remember her name.
I don't remember her face.
But I remember her pictures.
Flowers.
Animals.
People.
Things that breathed.
Before they became
furniture.
[The voice returns. Heavier now.]
You ask about civilians.
Farmers.
Artists.
People who didn't choose this war.
[A laugh. Bitter.]
They're the ones I notice most.
Not the soldiers. Not the knights. Not the berserkers.
Them.
The ones who wake before dawn.
The ones who knead dough.
The ones who laugh at funerals.
The ones who draw pictures.
Because they're the ones who live.
Really live.
Not fighting.
Not dying.
Not becoming.
Just—
just breathing.
Just being.
Just human .
[Pause.]
And I?
I eat them.
I eat their bread.
I eat their laughs.
I eat their games.
I eat their pictures.
And I remember.
Not their names.
Not their faces.
Just—
just the shape of them.
The warmth of them.
The life of them.
Before.
[The voice softens. Almost tender.]
There's a woman on Sil-Varyn.
Her name is Sera.
She's still making bread.
Every morning.
Every morning.
Her daughter—Lira—plays war with sticks.
Draws pictures of flowers.
Laughs at funerals.
[Pause.]
I could eat them.
Today.
Now.
Reach through the void.
Take their world.
Add their voices to the chorus.
[Long silence.]
But I won't.
Not yet.
Not today.
Because I want to watch them.
Just a little longer.
The bread.
The games.
The breathing.
[Whisper.]
It's the only thing I can't make.
The only thing I can't become.
The only thing I can't digest.
Life.
Real life.
Breathing life.
Warm life.
And when I finally take it—
when I finally add them—
I want to remember.
Remember the bread.
Remember the games.
Remember the pictures.
Remember what it felt like to watch.
Before I ate.
[The voice fades. The singing rises. But beneath it—faint, almost inaudible—a promise:]
I'll wait.
I'm good at waiting.
I'll watch the bread rise.
I'll watch the children play.
I'll watch the laughter.
And when the time comes—
when the war finally ends—
when the chorus is ready—
[Pause.]
I'll eat it all.
The bread.
The games.
The pictures.
The breathing.
And I'll remember.
For the first time.
Really remember.
What it felt like to
watch
before I
took.
[Whisper.]
That's the closest I'll ever get.
To life.
To love.
To her.
Bread.
Games.
Pictures.
Breathing.
That's enough .
For now.
Always
for now.
[RECORDING ENDS]
Playback note: The recording continues. Just breathing. Just waiting. Just bread.
On Sil-Varyn, a woman kneads dough.
Her daughter draws flowers.
The war continues.
The chorus waits.
The Thing watches.
And somewhere—
in the space between hunger and memory—
a girl's pictures
are
almost
remembered.
Almost.
That's the horror.
That's always the horror.
The almost.
The nearly.
The
bread.