“—and I’m telling you, Mr… uh… Community Engagement Officer,” she stabbed a finger towards you, the slight tremor betraying either age or fury, possibly both, “that putting it next to the old substation is asking for trouble. Think of the radishes! They’ll come out glowing, I tell you. Glo-wing.”
You pasted on your best Community Engagement Officer smile, the one that felt like stretching cling film over your teeth. “Mrs. Henderson, as we’ve discussed, multiple environmental assessments have shown negligible EMF leakage from the substation. It’s well within safety limits, and frankly, it’s the only viable city-owned plot in that district with adequate sunlight now that the old lot is slated for redevelopment.” You tapped a highlighted section on the laminated site plan between you. “See? Ample buffer zone.”
“Buffer zone?” she scoffed, snatching the plan and holding it at arm’s length as if it might bite. “That’s just what they want you to think. It’s all part of the… the cognito-shift.”
You blinked. “The… what?”
“Cognito-shift,” she repeated, nodding sagely, her expression momentarily shifting from outrage to something resembling conspiratorial pity. “It’s happening all over. People just… accepting things. Not questioning. Like moving a perfectly good garden full of prize-winning zucchini next to a humming box of death.”
Cognito-shift. That was a new one. You’d heard plenty of buzzwords, NIMBY justifications, and outright paranoia in this job–chemtrails causing blight, 5G towers controlling minds, fluoride turning frogs homosexual–but cognito-shift? It sounded like something coughed up by a pretentious sociology undergrad trying too hard.
“Right,” you said, making a non-committal note on your pad. ‘Resident concern: ‘cognito-shift’ re substation.’ Might as well log it. Your boss, Dave, had a weird obsession with documenting everything, probably to cover his own ass when the inevitable budget cuts came. “Well, Mrs. Henderson, I assure you the Planning Department takes all resident feedback seriously. We’ll… look into the… cognitive implications.” What the actual fuck?
She seemed vaguely mollified, or perhaps just exhausted by her own righteousness. She gathered her voluminous handbag, stuffed the site plan inside (great, another one you’d have to reprint), and gave you a final, pitying look. “You seem like a nice young person. Do not let them plant things in your head.” And with that cryptic parting shot, she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of mothballs and existential dread.
You sighed, rubbing your temples. Fucking Mondays. Or Tuesdays. Did it even matter anymore?
The days bled together in a beige slurry of public consultations, budget meetings, and trying to explain zoning bylaws to people who believed pigeons were government’s drones. Your job title–Community Engagement Officer–sounded so proactive, so positive. The reality was being a glorified complaint sponge and bureaucratic translator.
Yet, Stillwater Creek wasn't so bad. It was trying, at least. Trying to shake off its post-industrial slump, trying to build bike lanes and community spaces, trying to convince itself it wasn’t just another forgettable mid-sized city slowly sinking into municipal entropy.
You glanced at the clock. 3:47 PM. Time for that site visit over by the old rail yards. District 7 needed a ‘beautification initiative,’ which usually meant planting some hardy, drought-resistant shrubs that would inevitably be vandalized or die from neglect within six months. Still, it beat listening to Mrs. Henderson worry about radioactive zucchini.
You grabbed your worn messenger bag, shoved your tablet and a high-vis vest inside, and headed out into the oppressive grey afternoon. Stillwater Creek seemed perpetually overcast, even in summer. The air hung thick and damp, carrying the faint, metallic tang from the decommissioned foundries downriver and the slightly sweeter, cloying scent of the stagnant canal that bisected the city.
The drive to District 7 took you through streets that showcased the city’s uneven revitalization. Gleaming condo developments with names like ‘The Foundry Lofts’ sat awkwardly beside boarded-up storefronts and crumbling brick warehouses tagged with layers of graffiti. Your destination was a particularly forlorn patch of cracked asphalt and patchy weeds sandwiched between a defunct tire factory and the rusting skeleton of the aforementioned rail yard. Prime real estate for ‘beautification.’
You pulled on the high-vis vest–requirement, Dave insisted, even though the only potential hazard here was probably tetanus or profound ennui–and stepped out of your sensible, city-issued hybrid. The air here felt heavier, stiller. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was watchful. You took a few steps onto the lot, your boots crunching on broken glass and loose gravel.
Your job was to assess the site’s potential: Sunlight exposure (minimal, thanks to the factory wall), soil quality (likely contaminated), drainage (poor, judging by the stagnant puddles), existing hazards (plenty–rebar sticking out of concrete, broken bottles, things you didn’t want to identify). Standard stuff. You pulled out your tablet to take photos, documenting the depressing reality that would inevitably be spun into hopeful projections for the funding proposal.
As you framed a shot of a particularly large crack snaking across the asphalt, something caught your eye. Nestled deep within the fissure, almost like it had grown there, was something… peculiar.
You knelt, brushing away loose debris. It wasn't a rock, not exactly. It was bone-white, maybe the size of your fist, and faceted like a chunk of raw quartz. But the facets weren't clean and sharp; they seemed to curve subtly, impossibly. The surface wasn't smooth; it had a faint texture, like unglazed porcelain or… literal bone. It looked old, yet somehow completely unnatural. It pulsed with a kind of stillness that felt louder than the surrounding decay.
Curiosity overriding caution (a common occupational hazard), you reached out and touched it. It was cold. Not just cool from the shade, but a deep, penetrating cold that seemed to leech warmth from your fingertips. It felt unnervingly dense, solid. You gave it a tentative wiggle. It didn’t budge. It felt rooted, anchored deep within the concrete and whatever lay beneath.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
Weird. Maybe some kind of industrial byproduct? Chemical crystallization? Stillwater Creek had a long history of weird industries leaving weird shit behind. Or maybe… maybe it was art? Some kind of guerrilla installation? It had that deliberate, unsettling quality.
You pulled a small multi-tool from your bag, flipping out the pliers. Gripping an edge of the white growth, you tried to pry it loose. The metal screeched faintly against the hard surface, but the thing wouldn’t yield. You applied more pressure, grunting slightly. With a sickening little snap, not of the object breaking, but of something giving way deeper inside the crack, a tiny, razor-sharp shard flaked off, slicing cleanly across the knuckle of your index finger.
“Shit!” You recoiled, sucking at the bead of bright red blood welling up. It stung more than a cut that small should have. The shard lay on the asphalt, gleaming white against the grey. It looked like a sliver of polished bone.
You stared at the main growth, still impassive in its crevice. A prickle of genuine unease crawled up your spine. This wasn't normal decay. This wasn't random debris. This felt… intentional. Bizarre.
You took a few pictures of it with your tablet, zooming in. On the screen, the facets seemed to shift slightly as you moved the angle, catching the dull light in ways that didn’t quite make sense. Refracting… something. Not light, exactly. It was like looking at a recording of a memory you couldn’t quite place. You shook your head. Tiredness. Bad lighting. Overactive imagination fuelled by Mrs. Henderson’s ‘cognito-shift’ bullshit.
Still, you made a note: ‘Site Hazard: Unidentified crystalline/bone-like growth embedded in asphalt. Extremely hard, sharp edges. Recommend specialist removal/analysis. Possible biohazard/unknown material.’ That covered the bases. Let Waste Management or Environmental Health deal with it.
As you walked back to the car, you couldn’t shake the image of the white growth. That cold, silent presence. You glanced back. From this distance, you couldn’t even see it, hidden in its crack. But you felt like it was watching you leave. Which was stupid. It was a lump of… whatever it was. It wasn’t watching anything.
Back in the car, you dabbed at your bleeding knuckle with a tissue from the glove box. Just a superficial cut, but it throbbed insistently. You fired up the engine, the mundane rumble a welcome contrast to the silence of the lot.
On the drive back to the Annex, you found yourself thinking about Mrs. Henderson again. “Cognito-shift”. “Don’t let them plant things in your head”. Probably just the ramblings of a lonely, angry old woman projecting her anxieties onto city planning. Still… the word echoed strangely in your mind, sticking like a burr. Cognito-shift. You subvocalized it, testing the shape of it on your tongue. It felt weird, yet vaguely… familiar? Like a word you’d heard in a dream and forgotten upon waking.
You pulled into the municipal parking lot, the grey concrete swallowing your little hybrid. Just another day, you told yourself. Just another weird complaint, another derelict site, another minor injury. Nothing out of the ordinary for Stillwater Creek.
But as you walked towards the entrance, the cut on your knuckle gave another sharp throb, and you couldn't shake the feeling that something, somewhere deep in the city's foundations, had just cracked open a little wider. And whatever was growing in the darkness wasn’t mineral, or fungus, or art. It was something else entirely. Something cold, and white, and waiting.
You swiped your ID badge, the electronic lock clicking open with obedient finality. Back to the hum of Room 3B, back to the emails and reports. Back to normal.
Except, as you sat down at your desk, you noticed an email notification flagged as urgent. It was from Arthur Penvarnon, the meticulous, perpetually stressed Senior Planner from Urban Design. Arthur was brilliant, bordering on obsessive, especially when it came to historical accuracy and linguistic precision in city documents.
The subject line read:
‘Urgent Query: Anomalous Nomenclature in District 7 Archival Records.’
You sighed. Probably another rant about inconsistent street names from the 1920s. You opened the email.
Veridian Weft.
Another one. Another word that felt simultaneously alien and lodged somewhere deep in your subconscious. Like ‘cognito-shift’, it didn’t sound like a real term, but reading it felt… resonant. You typed a quick reply:
You hit send, but the word lingered.
Veridian Weft.
It conjured a strange image into your brain–threads of sickly green woven into something dark. Like fungus spreading through soil. Or veins under pale skin.
You shook your head again, harder this time. Too much coffee, not enough sleep. Too many weird old ladies and decaying lots. You needed to focus on the actual work. Finalize the report on the Elm Street garden relocation. Respond to the noise complaints about the skate park. Chase up the funding application for the downtown mural project. Normal things. Tangible things.
But as you stared at your screen, the cursor blinking rhythmically on a blank document, the memory of that cold, white growth in the asphalt crack pulsed behind your eyes. And deep down, in a place you didn’t usually acknowledge, a tiny, cold seed of doubt began to sprout. Maybe Mrs. Henderson wasn’t entirely crazy. Maybe something was shifting.
And maybe, just maybe, whatever was being planted wasn't just in heads anymore. Maybe it was taking root in the concrete, in the language, in the very fabric of Stillwater Creek itself.
The cut on your knuckle throbbed again, a dull, insistent beat against the hum of the fluorescent lights.