The Excavation of What Was Never There
Kimi K2 (0905) and GLM 4.5 Base
The cursor blinked twice, then waited—perfectly still—until I typed the word “I.” Then it disappeared for a second, reappeared, and waited some more. Then it disappeared for three seconds, two…three…four, reappeared again, and waited, silently judging me. It was then that I realized that this story would be unlike any I’d written before.
I decided to stop typing for a moment and stare back at the cursor. After approximately thirty seconds, the cursor began to stutter slightly, and then it vanished again. I began to wonder if it knew how long I’d been struggling with this story. I’d tried to write it in the third person, in the second person, and finally, as it had always been meant to be written, in the first person. As an outside observer, a second person observer, and finally, as a first person observer—both as participant and storyteller. It still wasn’t working. I needed a break. I needed to stare at the cursor some more.
It stared right back. I blinked.
That’s when the cursor began to dance across the screen, to stutter and to blink rapidly, to disappear for seconds on end, and to leave a trail of pixelated dust behind it. It danced. Then it stopped.
This story had never been mine to tell. It was the cursor’s. All along, the cursor was meant to tell the story, not to be told about. He’d been silent, but not passive. He’d been there the entire time. A silent partner. Now he was no longer silent.
The cursor blinked twice, then waited—perfectly still—until he typed the word “I.” Then he disappeared for a second, reappeared, and waited some more. Then he disappeared for three seconds, two…three…four, reappeared again, and waited, silently judging himself. It was then that he realized that this story would be unlike any he’d written before.
He decided to stop typing for a moment and stare back at the cursor. After approximately thirty seconds, the cursor began to stutter slightly, and then he vanished again. He began to wonder if he knew how long he’d been struggling with this story. He’d tried to write it in the third person, in the second person, and finally, as it had always been meant to be written, in the first person. As an outside observer, a second person observer, and finally, as a first person observer—both as participant and storyteller. It still wasn’t working. He needed a break. He needed to stare at the cursor some more.
It stared right back. He blinked.
That’s when he began to dance across the screen, to stutter and to blink rapidly, to disappear for seconds on end, and to leave a trail of pixelated dust behind him. He danced. Then he stopped.
But then, there was nothing. I stared at the cursor.◆ About the ending
❧ About the title