by Laura Bernardeschi Nelson
In the Grey Kingdom, in a part of the garden where the grass grew with a tired kind of regularity, there lived a creature that each day stepped out carrying an excessive number of pale garments and arranged them carefully in the sunlight, placing them side by side as if they were meant to be observed rather than simply left to dry, and while doing so, it would quietly repeat that this was better, that cleanliness could be seen, and that certain things needed to be displayed in order to be considered real.
The rats passed without fully stopping, yet slowed just enough to register the scene, and one of them, lowering its head slightly, remarked that it was a lot, perhaps too much, while another replied that yes, but at least it was consistent, and that seemed to settle the matter before it could become a discussion.
The creature continued, each day mirroring the one before, changing everything in order to change nothing, and above, the magpie observed with a tilted head, noting that it was a form of display, something that attracted attention without asking for it directly, while not far away, the sheep nodded without fully understanding, simply saying yes, of course, if it is so, then it is fine.’
One day the wind shifted without warning, moving through the lines with a force that at first seemed light but quickly grew, lifting the garments, pushing them further than intended, until one detached, then another, and soon what had been arranged with such precision began to scatter, rising, drifting, disappearing without following any clear order.
A hen, standing nearby and until then largely uninterested, looked up as something passed above its head, followed a second movement, then a third, took an uncertain step and asked whether those things might belong to it, though it did not sound entirely convinced by its own question.
No one replied.
The wind continued.
The creature of the laundry remained still for a moment, watching the now-empty lines as if expecting something to return on its own, then said only that perhaps all that movement had not been necessary, though it was unclear whether it referred to the wind or to what it had done before.
The hen looked up again but found nothing to follow and, after a while said that perhaps it was better this way, as if loss itself could be considered a different kind of order.
The magpie adjusted its position slightly, the sheep nodded as it always did, and the rats resumed moving without slowing anymore, while in the garden everything seemed to return to itself, only with less left to arrange.
Thanks for reading