The Reaping Automaton
I. Stickers and Welds
A human being is a precision instrument fresh off the factory line. Some steel stamps are pressed into places unseen, blurry yet tactile: *Shelf Life: * followed by those two faint digits, unclear if they begin with a two or a three.
Once past that timeline, the meshing of the gears begins to lose its rhythm, occasionally letting out a dull, heavy clank. Thirty-eight years—it is like a machine that has been kept running far past its prime; the paint on the outer casing is peeling, revealing the dark red rust beneath. Every morning's startup feels like a rushed, daily maintenance: tightening a loose screw here, a slapdash weld over a seam that threatens to split there.
But no! It can still output power. Resigned to its fate, it hurtles along its predetermined tracks.
The schedule on the desk remains precise to the minute, and the newly bought sketchbook is filled with yearnings for the future. Yet, only I know that these vibrant neon hues are nothing but decorative stickers slapped onto metal components already riddled with microscopic, fatigued cracks. Time sometimes drags like low-grade lubricant, gumming up all the bearings; at other times, it snaps like a broken spring, leaving no time to even glimpse the spinning dial.
II. The Stake in the Wheat Field
Outside the window lies an expanse of autumn-golden, ripe paddy fields. As the wind brushes past, waves of grain undulate, beautiful as a meticulously painted oil canvas.
But that land has nothing to do with the sentinel standing on the ridge. It is a mere carcass, propped up by two rough, crossed wooden stakes, draped in a discarded, faded old suit found who-knows-where, stuffed with shriveled straw.
It forces open the old suit, drapes itself in a cobbled-together armor of rusted iron plates, and stuffs a roaring, secondhand steam core into its chest. It is no longer a sentinel; it is a self-deluding reaping automaton standing in this wheat field.
And yet, it stands there, arms wide, posing as a dutiful guardian of the harvest. Sparrows sweep past its shoulders, even perching on its straw hat, but in truth, it lacks the freedom to turn even its neck. It watches over a field that does not belong to it, guarding fruit with which it has no connection.
Occasionally, it looks down at its feet, where a few strands of rotted, blackened straw that leaked from its body lie. It fears those decayed straws; it fears that one day the wooden stake supporting its body will snap, and it will collapse entirely, turning into a neglected heap of withered yellow in the mud. But when it strains to raise its head and beholds the high, deep sky above, flowing with burning clouds, a sense of release washes over it—even if it stands like this forever, what real value does it hold, after all, to this land, or to that sky?
A soulless shadow, guarding an autumn harvest that is not its own.
III. The Scattered Studio and the Superfluous Color
The vacant easel spot next door was completely cleared out a few days ago.
It left few traces behind, save for a half-finished oil painting propped against the corner of the wall. A chunk was missing from the center of the canvas; where the deepest dark red of the sunset should have been painted, there was now only a stark, glaring patch of white. The paintbox had been packed away, probably missing a well-worn tube of pigment. That particular shade of color was now forever extinct in this world of oil paintings.
People sighed in hushed tones before that empty space, some even shedding tears. They gazed at the unfinished painting as if seeing a missing piece of their own puzzles, feeling a sense of dread and sorrow.
But so what? It was merely one essential pigment that was gone. Within the lifelike oil painting, the wind still blew in; outside the painting, it rustled against the frayed threads at the canvas edges. In this massive, assembly-line world, worn-out parts are discarded ruthlessly into scrap bins every single day, without even the value of recycling. Certain parts within the reaping automaton's body are also loosening; one day, it too will quietly fall apart, turning into a pile of rusted iron filings or a heap of rotted grass in the dirt.
This is simply part of the laws of nature. It is only logical; there is absolutely no need for sorrow.
IV. The Monstrosity in the Shadow
Before night falls, all the patterns of the room begin to overlap.
The mechanical watch on the desk, the tracks outside the window, the wooden stake on the ridge, and the delicate birdcage on the balcony.
When these things exist in isolation, they are so precise, so safe, emitting the faint glow of civilization and order. Yet, when the last rays of the twilight stretch their shadows, casting them in intersecting silhouettes upon the white wall—
The shadows of the gears transform into multi-jointed limbs; the lines of the tracks stretch into a cold spine; the splayed wooden arms of the scarecrow become the gaunt claws of a beast; and the iron bars of the birdcage become the ribs imprisoning the monster's inner organs.
They piece themselves together on the wall. A monstrosity, forged from order, security, and the routine of the everyday, crouches quietly at the edge of the darkness. With its expired, hoarse voice, it lets out a silent growl into the empty void.
