The smell of sawdust was a comfort. It clung to Silas's clothes, to the worn wooden floorboards of his workshop, and to the air itself, a constant, earthy perfume that spoke of honest work and a simple life. He was a craftsman of fine wooden instruments, guitars, cellos, the occasional mandolin, and the quiet hum of his sander was the soundtrack to his days.
This life was everything to him. It was a life without complication, a series of simple, repeatable tasks that produced something tangible and beautiful. He loved the feel of the wood, its texture and grain, the way a rough block transformed into a smooth, resonant curve beneath his hands. It was a world that made sense.
"You're going to get sawdust in your coffee again," a voice said from the doorway.
Silas looked up, a smile already on his face. It was Lia, his oldest friend and, more recently, something more than that. She was leaning against the doorframe, a mug held in her hands. Her hair was tied back, a few stray strands catching the sun as it streamed in. She worked at the small town's library, a job that suited her calm and thoughtful nature.
"A little sawdust adds character," Silas said, taking the mug. The steam was warm against his fingers. "Just like coffee stains on a blueprint."
Lia chuckled, stepping inside. "The news is talking about that weird thing by the river again. The one with the birds."
Silas took a sip. "The 'flock in formation'? It's just migration, Lia. The patterns are probably just more… organized this year."
He didn't believe it, not really. Yesterday, a huge flock of starlings had been seen flying over the town, not in the usual chaotic swarm, but in a perfectly geometric shape, a giant, spinning hexagon that held its form for an hour before dissolving into nothing. It had been on every news channel, a minor curiosity.
But Silas had felt a strange lurch in his gut when he saw it. It wasn't a sense of wonder or confusion. It was something deeper, something akin to a mechanic looking at a flawless machine with one missing screw. He felt a profound sense of wrongness.
The feeling was back now. He put down the coffee and turned back to the half-finished cello on his workbench. He was about to use a small file on a delicate curve when the tool slipped from his fingers. It didn't fall to the floor with a clatter. It simply hovered. For a full second, the metal file hung in the air, spinning slowly, as if suspended in a thick, invisible liquid.
His breath caught in his throat. Lia, busy picking up a pile of wood shavings, didn't notice. He watched, his mind racing, a primal part of him screaming that this was impossible. Then, just as suddenly, the file dropped, hitting the ground with a sharp clink.
He froze, his heart pounding. Lia glanced over. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," he lied, his voice a little too quick. "Just… dropped my file."
That night, the anomalies grew bolder. A streetlamp on the corner of his block, a steady white light for as long as he could remember, began to flicker. Not randomly, but in a precise, repeated sequence: a short flash, then a long one, then a series of quick pulses. It was a code, a perfect pattern that made no logical sense.
He stood by his window, staring at it, the feeling of wrongness now a cold knot in his stomach. He wasn't scared in the way the other townspeople were. He was terrified in a way only a man who knew the rules could be, watching them break one by one. Images he couldn't place flashed in his mind's eye: vast stretches of star-dusted nothingness, complex geometric shapes that held entire galaxies, and a profound, bone-deep sense of loneliness.
The next morning, the real crisis began. He was walking with Lia to the market when he heard a scream. A small sedan, parked on a gentle slope, was slowly beginning to lift off the asphalt. People scattered in a panic, pointing and shouting as the car, a metal behemoth, rose into the air, its engine sputtering uselessly.
Silas saw a young girl, no older than ten, frozen in the car's path, her eyes wide with terror. Lia gripped his arm, her knuckles white.
His mind screamed for action. He couldn't let the car fall, couldn't let it crush her. His normal, rational mind searched for a solution, but there was nothing. There was only one way. Without thinking, a surge of raw energy bloomed in his chest. It felt both utterly alien and perfectly natural, like an arm he had forgotten he had. He didn't consciously direct it. He just pushed.
The car, which had been rising straight up, shuddered and angled slightly to the side, veering away from the terrified girl before it crashed into a brick wall with a sickening crunch. The crowd went silent, then a wave of relief washed over them. The girl was safe. Everyone was looking at the wrecked car, thankful for what seemed like a random, lucky deviation. No one was looking at Silas.
But he was looking at his hands. They were trembling, not from fear, but from the aftershock of a power he had no right to possess. The world was not just breaking; it was breaking because of him. He had stopped being a simple craftsman the moment that file floated, and he was no longer just a man. He was something else entirely, and the terror of it was just beginning.