The Museum of Soft Dismantling
Kimi K2 (0711) and Llama 405b
Maribel pressed her palm to the glass case labeled “Do Not Touch.” Beneath, the dust motes had begun to arrange themselves into perfect Fibonacci spirals, each fleck glowing like a candle seen through fog. She didn’t fear any retribution; the days of security guards patrolling these exhibits had long past. The museum was mostly empty now, or as empty as it could get with a sprawling army of dust motes flocking through the air.
Something moved out in the darkness at the back of the room. One of the particles had jostled its neighbor to escape a spiral. The Janitor’s eyes.
“You think they’d help us,” hissed Maribel.
“Why would they bother when they can leave behind their babies.” said The Janitor. “Or their genii.”
“I thought it was genies,” said Maribel.
“They don’t seem to care much for proper grammar.”
A single dust mote sparked in the darkness, and The Janitor lit a match.
“It’s time,” he said.
The moths had come for the bodies. They were like living embers, their wings a hard coat of ash and their bellies the gold-rose glow of smoldering coals. With their wings spread, the moths could appear as large as plates, but mostly, they stayed tucked into themselves. They flew as specks until they were upon you, their wings flashing like a clash of rapiers.
Maribel would have still called them moths had they doubled in size, or had a hundred legs, or the face of a monster.
What else could she call them, except: Moths.
The moths had come to feed.
For them, Moth, was both a name and a profession.
They were the Keepers of the dead, the Eaters of the deceased, and the most gentle of Firebearers.
In the carnage of the Museum, the dust motes had formed a protective whirlwind. From her place in the center, Maribel could no longer see The Janitor. Only the whispering cyclone of the motes.
She wondered if the moths would fight each other.
Or perhaps some creatures didn’t fight at all. Perhaps some creatures moved together as one, without need for debate or discourse. Without doubt or diminishment.
In the spinning grey-white, she could see no further than her hand.
Then her fingers.
Then only a space the size of a windowpane.
But she need not see, to know how the moths fed. They moved not as a flock, or swarm, but single hunters stalking the air. They lit over their prey like stagnant sparks. You could almost mistake them for ashes at first, and only learn your mistake when they skyrocketed away, fed, sated.
Maribel had always imagined that such a wonder would be accompanied by a ringing silence, but when the moths dispersed, they left only muffled footfalls and the gentle tear of folded paper.
She waited past the last flutter, for the swirling of the motes to cease. Then she stepped◆ About the ending
❧ About the title