by Laura Bernardeschi Nelson
This is the final chapter of a series of short stories set in the Grey Kingdom — a place where nothing grows freely and everything is quietly adjusted.
What follows is not a conclusion, but an absence.
In the Grey Kingdom, for the first time, all the creatures gathered in the same space, arranged in ordered rows as if someone had decided it was time to witness something together, though it was not clear what.
The rats occupied most of the space, moving with a contained agitation they could not fully suppress, tapping their paws in uneven intervals as a sound began to form among them, at first faint, then clearer, until it became recognisable without guidance.
“Vixen,” said one.
“Vixen,” others repeated.
The rhythm settled.
The boar stood ahead, still, with the weasel beside it speaking in a low, continuous tone, as if the words did not need to reach a conclusion, while not far away Madame Bulk occupied a closed space that required no explanation, unmoving as ever.
“It is expected,” said the weasel.
The boar made a short sound.
That was enough.
Among the rats, the mantis observed with its legs gathered, still but attentive, occasionally turning toward the pug, which moved too quickly between the rows, searching for something to fix, something to adjust, never finding a stable point, while the badger, nearby, intervened each time with precision, saying it was not like that, that it was unnecessary, that it should be done differently.
The pug nodded.
Moved again.
Stopped.
Resumed.
The sheep was not there.
Someone said it had been seen before, but without what once held it together it was difficult to recognise, and the thought dissolved among the rats without forming.
The magpie was absent.
It was said it had left the garden, following something brighter than needed, but no one knew whether it had returned or found what it was looking for.
The sound continued.
“Vixen.”
“Vixen.”
Then it slowed.
Some stopped.
Others continued a little longer.
The rhythm broke.
The space remained.
Everything was ready.
No one arrived.
The weasel paused.
“It is late,” it said.
The boar did not move.
The mantis lifted its gaze slightly.
“Observe,” it said.
But there was nothing to observe.
The pug stopped.
The badger did not intervene.
The rats remained silent longer than usual.
Time passed without signal.
The arrangement remained.
So did the waiting.
Then someone said quietly that perhaps it would not come, and no one truly answered, because the thought met neither resistance nor confirmation.
The weasel looked forward.
The boar remained still.
Madame Bulk did not move.
The mantis closed its legs slightly.
The silence settled.
Nothing happened.
And because of that, something changed.
The vixen was not there.
It was not coming.
It was no longer anywhere it could be found.
In the Grey Kingdom, for the first time, there was nothing to adjust.
And that was not enough.