Origin

For a long time, the Corrector believed that every prison must have a warden.

He searched for the creator.

Some archives led to ancient civilizations.

Others — to forbidden technologies.

There were theories about an artificial intelligence that had long ago taken control of reality.

About beings living beyond the visible universe.

About gods who had forgotten their creation.

Every theory seemed possible.

Until, one by one, they fell apart.

At the end of the archives there was not a single name.

Not a single signature.

Not a single first event.

Only a recurring law.

The more people hid the same truth from themselves, the denser the Fabric grew.

At first almost imperceptibly.

Then faster and faster.

As if millions of small cracks were gradually becoming one solid wall.

Then the Corrector understood.

The Fabric had never been created.

It had grown.

Not out of stone.

Not out of technology.

Not out of the will of gods.

Out of fear.

Out of every time a person said:

“That’s not me.”

Out of every time anger was called justice.

Envy — morality.

Greed — duty.

Fear — wisdom.

Every hidden part of the self left a barely visible trace in the Fabric.

One person’s trace meant nothing.

Billions of traces became the world.

And then the most terrifying thought pierced him.

There was not a single culprit.

There was not a single architect.

There was no one to take revenge on.

There was nothing to destroy.

Humanity hadn’t fallen into a prison.

It had grown it.

One fear at a time.

One lie at a time.

One unrecognized shadow at a time.

Until one day that prison became the only reality still possible to imagine.