In a kingdom across the world and not unlike our own, lived myths that collapse when observed called Quantum Folkloria. These myths protected what society could not face—the inconvenient, the unmanageable, or the outliers that make the charts go funny—dutifully held by shadow creatures.
At first, they started innocently enough with stray grievances, half-thoughts, mismatched socks that offended the sense of order. But the rulers soon discovered humans themselves could be tucked away too. Mischief makers who defied the social graces of their time, whether on purpose or not. They called it security, which was true in the same way capturing the moonlight in a cup could be called tea.
The shadow creatures held what could not be acknowledged—despair, rage, confusion, and the odd pang of guilt. The rulers, of course, refused to bear it, nodding at one another, as if ticking boxes were the same as ruling wisely, as if neatness wasn’t the first cousin of cruelty.
But the shadow creatures grew more filthy. The more fear and shame stuffed inside, the more they polluted their trail of sludge. They grew miniature cities with streets paved with discarded hopes, towers of sorrow, marketplaces of longing. And while society prided themselves on the quiet efficiency of their work, their own hearts began to fossilize without anyone noticing, trapped in a false sense of reality.
The kingdom could have chosen differently. It could have imagined restoration instead of containment or wonder instead of fear. So the shadow creatures grew, burdened with restless souls and wasted human potential. Outside, the kingdom appeared orderly, safe, and accomplished. But inside, the folkloria contained secrets society couldn’t measure—the loss of their own soul.
Perhaps one day the quantum will burst and the kingdom will have to reckon with the myths it stuffed. Until then, the creatures wait to be observed, while the rulers celebrate their ratings, blissfully unaware of the absurdity of it all.