Once, in the hazy thick of summer, a man named Henry worked from home in the dimly lit den of his small suburban house. His days were a parade of long, lonely hours, filled with the hum of a computer, punctuated by emails that, he was certain, no one really read. Henry’s wife had left years ago, and with her went the laughter that once warmed the space. The quiet clung to his walls like old wallpaper, peeling and fading, yet strangely comforting.
One morning, a sly draft slipped through the crack of his kitchen window, inviting with it a parade of flies. At first, they seemed innocuous, dotting the air lazily as they buzzed around his head. He swatted at them without concern, assuming they would disappear on their own. But by noon, the flies multiplied, turning into a small, dissonant symphony that echoed around his office, drowning out the soft whirr of his computer.
A certain rage welled up inside him, a strange desperation to reclaim his space. He grabbed the closest weapon he could find—a rolled-up magazine—and began the hunt.
One by one, Henry struck each fly with an almost surgical precision, savoring the dull thud of success as their small bodies crumpled to the floor. By evening, he had wiped out the lot of them—or so he thought. It was then, as he stood surveying the battlefield, that he spotted a single survivor.
It was a tiny creature, barely noticeable amidst the carnage of fallen bodies scattered across his carpet. But Henry saw it. And something in him shifted. This fly was different—determined, quiet, almost elegant in its movements. Where the others had buzzed mindlessly, this one seemed to observe him, as if it too had a mind, a purpose.
The rest of the evening, Henry watched the fly. He did not attempt to kill it. Instead, he followed it with his gaze, studying its every move. It didn’t dart around haphazardly, as he’d come to expect of flies. No, this one moved with intent, drifting lazily in his direction, hovering near him with an eerie calm.
The next morning, he was greeted not by the usual beep of his alarm clock but by the sound of delicate wings beating somewhere close. It was his fly, his single, quiet companion. He felt a surge of joy—or perhaps it was relief—at its presence, as if he had been reunited with an old friend.
Over the days, he became obsessed. He named it, called it “Verity” for its truthfulness, for the honesty of its tiny, unpretentious existence. Henry took to observing Verity’s every move, sometimes speaking to it in low whispers, confessing his fears, his regrets, his longings. In the fly’s presence, he felt both seen and unseen, a paradox of comfort that blurred the lines between himself and the creature.
He began to wonder if it wasn’t the fly observing him all along. The feeling grew within him—suddenly, he saw his life, his choices, his loneliness, all reflected in the creature’s small, unblinking eyes. He began to wonder: Was Verity here for him?
One evening, as the sunlight faded into an oppressive, heavy dusk, Henry sat with Verity, now nestled on his desk. He stared at the fly, a calm determination settling into his bones. He reached for the magazine, the same one he had used to kill the others. Verity looked back at him, unmoved, still, an accomplice to his madness.
With one swift motion, he brought down the magazine. It was over in an instant. The last fly, his beloved, was gone.
Something inside him collapsed. In killing Verity, he realized, he had killed the last piece of himself, the one flicker of hope, the one whisper of companionship. In his hand lay only a smear, a tiny, dark mark against the glossy page. He felt the emptiness creep in, colder than the silence, deeper than the stillness of his empty house.
That night, Henry wandered through the rooms of his home, every corner echoing with the silence, each wall staring back at him blankly, accusingly. He saw, in the shadows, the lives he could have lived, the choices he could have made. But those too were dead, crushed beneath the weight of a single, devastating blow.
As dawn broke, Henry stepped into his backyard, barefoot on the cool grass, the morning dew biting against his skin. He closed his eyes and let himself fall into the earth, surrounded by the buzzing silence of a thousand, invisible wings.