Work Text:
Everyone knows gyroids have empty eyes.
They're simple curiosities, each dancing to its own unique music. Some of them can even talk, which isn't all that miraculous, once you think about it. All that hollowness in their heads leaves a lot of space for words.
If you unscrew the top of one, you won't be able to see the bottom.
The inside of a gyroid smells like flower petals. It trembles like a rainstorm. When you listen closely, you can hear footsteps. Lean closer to count them. Fall in.
You can hear the soul of a child calling their own name. It takes you a little time to realize that they are only trying to reclaim themself, broken fingers snatching at memories scattered like ashes from a jar. You are still falling. You weigh less with each wail from the child, the loneliness a whirlpool grasping at the bottom of your lungs. The more you listen, the more you believe you're the one who's died an untimely death.
Pull your head back out. Gasp, clench your fists, maybe even cry a little.
Some people throw the gyroids into the sea. Perhaps that's a suitable fate, a life of manuvering jellyfish stings and the lonely stillness of the ocean at night. Some fishermen mistake them for the remains of a shipwreck. More playful sailors, blessed with youth both in heart and body, fish them up, but there's always something that makes the artifact slip from their fingers and back into the water.
You feel as though you ought to say something to the gyroid. It gave you its soul, its entire history. To think you used to carry them, three at a time, marvelling at their lightness.
Some people donate them. They give them away as gifts to relatives in faraway towns or leave them by the doorsteps of unfamiliar museums. Someone, somewhere will know what to do with them, they think. Someone has dedicated their life to making sure the terror that keeps them up at night doesn't have to stalk other people, too.
You can feel the distaste transforming into obsession. What makes them this way, so empty, so hungry? And these kids, lonely, helpless--can we save them? Can we bring them back?
Months later, villagers will wonder what happened to their beloved mayor. Once so haphazardly bright, the leader of this town walks with a limp. They have dark circles under their eyes. Some of the villagers say the mayor is growing smaller, deathly, even. Their eyes, darker than they used to be, have started to look hollow.