Meg

In the perpetual hum of a butcher shop that never truly sleeps, Meg exists as a quiet fixture in a world that seems to blur at the edges. Her days are a cycle of wiping, restocking, and smiling at faces that remain indifferent. The shop’s fluorescent lights flicker like a heartbeat, casting long shadows that stretch and twist around her. Each task she performs feels like a ritual, trapping her in a loop of sameness. When Meg softly asks, ‘Am I doing okay?’ the answer is a hollow reassurance: ‘You’re very useful.’ But usefulness is a cold comfort when your presence starts to fade. Slowly, Meg’s existence unravels. The shop’s glass reflects her face layered over the cuts of meat, a ghostly apparition that grows fainter with each passing day. The world around her feels like a dream, and she, the dreamer who is waking up to her own disappearance. One morning, the shop opens as usual, but Meg is gone. A new sign hangs near the counter: ‘NOW FEATURING HOUSE SPECIALS.’ Yet, traces of her remain—a pair of glasses folded neatly on a shelf, a reflection that doesn’t match the face in the mirror, a name missing from the schedule. Meg’s story is a haunting reminder of how some people disappear so slowly that no one notices the moment they are gone, leaving behind only the faintest whispers of their presence.