Cautiously at first, they hovered over the crevice with trembling antennae, and then, more and more eagerly, they swarmed, peering inside.

Ohhh. Such emptiness.

Such hollowness.

Such darkness.

Mandibles churning, they scuttered down and down and down inside the crisp shell that held all that emptiness. The cavity was sad and hot and vast—a whole cavern. At last, they reached the bottom. Ah! There! In the lowermost corner of the husk, in the very darkest of its dry folds, they found a bit of life.

Small, pale, crouching—had it been once a boy? The soul of a boy?

The beetles tapped at the pale, crouching thing with wary feelers and gentle feet. If it was a soul, it was both sad and strange. It seemed more like a frog, thumb-sized and damp, lost in this great cavern of emptiness.

They considered the pale, squatting, froggish thing; they considered the cavern of emptiness and the crumbly shell that held it; they considered the pelt still resting in the lap of the man.

Could they?

Should they?

They twittered and churred. Still so exhilarated with the work they had done in the artful unstitching of wolf and boy, they did not hesitate long. Of course they should try!

There was no unpicking here, no unthreading of lacework. So much less taxing than their usual work of decay. Here, it all just… crumbled apart. How easy it was! They bit and tugged and pulled; they grasped with their mandibles and their marshy grub mouths, and the dry shell of the man fell into pieces. First the head, then the shoulders, then the feet, arms, legs, belly… One by one, the dry-cheese-man’s parts collapsed until at last all that was left was the cavern of chest.

The emptiness began to escape—a long, slow hissing into the air. Oh, no you don’t! The creeping things rushed to trap the emptiness, bundling it quick with the wolf pelt and stitching it all inside. Their work was not fine. How could it be? The emptiness was so vast, so desperate and searching, it was all they could do to pinch the wolf pelt around it, to needle a few wild stitches to hold it together. Oh! Covered in wolf pelt, the emptiness shuddered and bucked and shook. The creeping things could not hang on. A few more frantic pinches, a few more frenzied threads, then they were forced to let go.

The emptiness, burning for so long in that dull, crispy shell, could not be restrained: In its new hide, with its new claws and jaws and tail, it howled, leaping and tearing out of the cell and into the darkness.

Having been scattered about the floor, the creeping things—spinning on their backs, legs agitating in the air—struggled to right themselves.

Where was the pale, froggish thing they had found?

Making their way to their feet again, they searched over the dirt. No, not here. Not here.

Where had it gone?

They sighed, a long, sad, creeping sigh.