Everything as It Should Be

Yesterday, at 8:34 PM, twenty three year old Jacob Smidt hurled himself off the East Village wall into the void. This is now the void’s fifty-fourth victim of the year. In the past five years, our city has seen a growing, disturbing trend of void-seekers. Is this just a coincidence, a streak that just so happens to be, or are these signs of a systemic issue hiding within our city’s shadows? May we keep the victims in our hearts. Have a blessed Sunday morning. Your host, Caroline.

The TV roars on in the background as I sprang up from the couch to head over to the kitchen counter. Sunlight beams into the living room through the glass doors of the balcony. Birds are chirping their euphonious melodies, while branches dance along to them with the wind. Another perfect picturesque day. The elders say, life in my generation is the best it’s ever been.

I always start my morning with the cold-brewed coffee I had prepared the night before. Although more tedious, it lessens the acidic taste one usually finds in hot-brewed coffee. 

From the fridge, I grab the stainless steel cup of coffee and filter the dark liquid gold through the sieve into my favorite capybara mug, the nutty floral scent of the coffee filling the room. From the overhead counter, I snatch the can of condensed milk and stir in a dollop amount of it, to add that little trace of sweetness I so adore. I heard this practice was made common centuries ago from a civilization that no longer exists. We are the only humans left now. Who knows what rancid creatures roam behind the walls?

When I was growing up, my grandparents would tell me that my parents are explorers of an exotic land. That they would come back once they’ve recorded everything they’ve learned. And they would come back as heroes. As I grew older, I learned to stop asking about them.

I take my coffee to the balcony. The air is sharp and dry, almost as if I’m inhaling sand into my lungs. Morning light spills over the buildings, washing everything in that faint yellow glow that makes the world look more majestic than it really is. Beyond the walls, the horizon is uninspiring, a kind of endless blue that doesn’t shimmer or shift. Below, the courtyard stretches out in perfect symmetry: the trimmed hedges, the pale tiles, the fountain still recycling its same pool of water.

From up here, the drop isn’t as long as I remember. I lean forward a little, elbows pressed against the railing, just to see how far it really is. The air doesn’t feel any different, but something in my stomach twists, a quiet pull, an invisible string tethered between me and the Earth.

I try to imagine the moment between falling and landing. What does it feel like to be unbounded, unconfined, even for a second? Does it hurt, or does it feel like relief?

The thought startles me; it’s dark but somehow familiar. Like my mind has wondered here before; my eyes have traced the same line down before. I take another sip of coffee, though it’s gone lukewarm from the baking of the sun.

I step back inside, trying to irk away the unwanted thoughts. But it follows me through the morning, through the ritual of getting ready for work, the brushed hair, the pressed uniform, the ID badge with the photo that has gone discolored.

I work at the Central Archives. They used to call it a library. The place smells of dust and disinfectant which I quite enjoy. It is the only place in the city that does not smell like it's perfect. It just is itself, a haven of all the knowledge, experiences, and stories of the people who have come before. My section is “Public Memory Repository.” They say it’s where history is kept safe, though most of the files are sealed and most of the readers gone; the irony of the term public is not lost on me.

The shelves are quiet, obedient. I spend most of my days scanning barcodes and logging circulation reports that no one reads. Sometimes the hum of the data drives feels almost like breathing, my only company. 

An official came asking for a specific archive when I found the folder. Thin, unmarked, wedged between two volumes of climate recovery records. Inside were photographs: faces in grainy grayscale, each labeled with a number. People who had “gone beyond.”

Void-seekers, the tag read.

Near the bottom of the stack, I saw two faces I’d never expected to see again. For a moment, I thought I was mistaken. The eyes. The slight turn of the jaw. The way the light cut across their cheeks. There was no mistaking it. Even in grayscale, even through the haze of age, I knew them.

The label beneath their photographs read: Subject 0321-A and Subject 0321-B.

No names. No acknowledgment. Just numbers.

My hands trembled, and one of the photos slipped, fluttering to the floor. It made a small, almost tender sound. I crouched to pick it up, but my knees refused to lock. The hum of the data drives filled the silence, steady and indifferent.

I put the folder back where I found it. I didn’t log it. I continued to finish the request from the official.

After work, I ventured up the wall. The walk to the wall takes forty minutes if you don’t stop. I didn’t. The city was at full blast: vendors setting up their stalls, drones tracing their routes, the same recorded announcements playing in intervals that could measure a heartbeat.

The smell of bread drifted from the corner bakery. A woman laughed too loudly at something on her wrist screen. Someone jogged past me, music leaking from their earbuds. Everything moved with its usual efficiency, like nothing had shifted at all. Like the world hadn’t been handed a folder that shouldn’t exist.

I wanted it to pause, just for a breath. For the sky to crack, or a bird to drop midflight, or the lights to flicker. Something. Anything. But the shuttle arrived on time. The crosswalk chimed its gentle signal. The city kept its promises.

When I reached the base of the wall, I looked up. The surface shimmered faintly in the daylight, a skin of metal and light, humming with that low pulse that I’d always thought was the wind.

I climbed the maintenance steps until I could see the city unfold beneath me. Its careful geometry, its clean order, its stillness. The dots of trees balancing out the buildings. The same perfection that had comforted me all these years now looked unbearably small, so insignificant.

The air was different here, thinner, like the atmosphere didn’t quite trust itself to exist this high. I tried to steady my breathing, but my chest felt hollow, like something inside me had already left.

I thought of their faces again. Not as parents. As two entries in a folder. They must’ve seen the same things I’m seeing now.

The wall now seems to be humming a deep tune. I set my palm against the fence, separating me from the void. It was warm.

“Citizen.”

The voice comes from below, metallic, unhurried. I glance down. A drone hovers near the maintenance steps, its red lens blinking in a calm rhythm.

“Restricted zone,” it says. “Please descend.”

I don’t move. The air finally vibrates faintly against my skin, the hum deepening until it fills the space behind my eyes.

“Citizen,” the voice repeats. “Do you require assistance?”

I almost laugh. Assistance.

My hand stays on the wall. It’s warm now, almost pulsing. For a moment I think I can feel it breathing back at me. I step closer to the edge. The city behind me stretches out in perfect order. The streets are criss-crossed almost too perfectly. The white rooftops, the fountain still cycling its same pool of water. Everything just as it should be. I wish I could be, too.

The drone hums again, patient. Waiting. Recording.

I take one more step.

The air rushes past me, or maybe I’m rushing past it. It doesn’t matter.

For once, the world isn’t perfect. It’s alive.