Spika revealed itself in stages. Jagged silhouettes thrown across the gallery walls, then structure: an intermittent lattice of thorns whose serrated edges split light. With time came dimension. What once appeared fragments became a tower of thorns—a fortress, dense and deliberate.
There was softness too. Webs of slimy material formed between Spika’s barbs, which intermittently condensed into semi-transluscent greenish globules. Under sunlight, these orbs darkened and by nightfall they glowed green—the slow conversion of stolen photons into biomass.
Maria leaned closer “Are those eggs?”
She reached for one, but her hand grasped empty air, the orb appearing to have moved to the left. Then right. Then above. Then behind her.
“Let’s get closer,” Maria said, and stepped past the “Cross” line. Marco followed.
The labyrinth reshaped itself around them. A thorn-arch—new, wet-looking, as if grown seconds ago—curved over Maria’s head. Marco grabbed her wrist. A security guard brushed past, herding visitors back, blind to the two intruders.
Being unseen was part of a cleaner’s job.
Marco unscrewed his water bottle. The cap slipped—fell—then vanished before it hit the ground.
Maria strained toward the glowing orbs. “They keep moving away from me.”
Her fingers passed through empty air as the orbs stayed just beyond her touch.
“Come on,” said Marco, “Let’s get back.”
Later, security would review the tapes. Footage showed the cleaners crossing the line. Never exiting. Just fragments: Marco’s sleeve in one frame, Maria’s shoe in another—disjointed, out of sequence, as if time had been incorrectly sliced and stitched back together.