The Hole in the Wall

More about The Hole in the Wall

No one knew how long the hole had been there. It gaped in the middle of an old brick wall, a neat, circular cutout that looked as if someone had carved out a piece of the world with a giant compass. The wall was old, crumbling, marked by time. Faded, torn posters hung on it like scraps of forgotten stories. The plaster was peeling, the stones were brittle, but the hole—it was flawless. On a pale afternoon, between the gray of the city and a light that barely represented hope, the boy stood before it. No one knew his name anymore. Perhaps he had lost it, somewhere among the alleys, the deserted streets, the murmuring of adults whispering, "None of our business." His clothes were a mere shadow of what they once were—the colors washed out, the edges frayed, as if they, too, had abandoned him. He stood still in front of the hole, his hands in his pockets, his eyes wide. To his right sat a small, gray cat, alert, as if it could see through walls. To his left, a small, shaggy dog, whose sad eyes never left him, silent but understanding everything. And through the hole they saw... not the other side of the street, not a backyard, not a garden. Instead, there was her. The plant sat enthroned in a terracotta pot, yet it seemed as if it might burst out of it at any moment. Its head: round, covered in green, spiky fur. From the center of its head protruded bright red spines, sharp like a punk's mohawk. Its mouth was wide open, and within it gleamed razor-sharp teeth, white as blades. Red, thread-like tentacles dangled from its lips, moving in the diffused light, as if beckoning, as if beckoning. Her "trunk" wasn't a trunk, but a curved cord of muscle, crisscrossed by thick, green veins, taut like the back of a lurking animal. Vines grew around the pot, leaves covered with thorns, shoots that whipped and searched the air. The air beyond the hole was not a garden, not a greenhouse—but a realm of shadows, where mists lay like veils, where leaves fell without landing, where a forest hinted, its darkness never ending. The boy didn't move. The cat purred, a low, vibrating hum that sounded like a memory. The dog whined softly, its ears drooping. And she—Audrey II—didn't speak. Not like in the old stories, where she sang, where she screamed. No, here she was silent. But her eyes—small, black pearls, hidden deep among the spines—blinked. Watching. Waiting. The boy leaned forward. "What are you?" he whispered, not with his voice, but with his heartbeat. And the plant answered—not with words, but with a rustle, a barely audible, steady pulse that sounded like a heart. Like a promise. Or like a call. He knew he shouldn't. Not step through the hole. Not into that other world. But he was hungry. Not for bread. Not for warmth. But for a place where even a shadow was a sign. A place where you could see what otherwise remained hidden.