PIMKI: BOOK THREE — FROM THE EDGE OF INFINITY TO EARTH

Three silences. Three worlds. One thread.

On Pim-Star, the silence of incompleteness. On Earth, the silence of found meaning. At the Edge, the silence of awakening.

And somewhere between them — a question without an answer: can you hear me?

At the very Edge of Everything, where stars do not light up but doze quietly in a cradle of dark velvet, an earthquake occurred. But not of stone and fire. Of feelings.

Part 1: An Earthquake in the World of Dreams

The Great Shadow, known as Skukla, stirred.

Its tentacles — not arms, not legs, but long, semi-transparent streams, as if woven from the smoke of forgotten days and the whisper of lonely nights — slowly swayed. Each movement was like the wingbeat of a sleeping bird the size of a galaxy.

And this movement, this tiny unease, echoed across the entire Universe like a stone thrown into a pond of silence.

Somewhere in the Asteroid Belt, two inseparable stones, who had waltzed around each other for millions of years, suddenly took offence and drifted apart. One of them turned its crater toward the other as if to say, «Fine. See if I care.»

On the planet of the Green Yawn, a volcano, ready to put on a fireworks show of lava, changed its mind, yawned, and fell asleep, releasing only a cloud of disappointed steam.

And in the room of a boy named Leo on Earth, a dream about a space station suddenly dimmed. The boy frowned in his sleep. It seemed to him that he had been holding something incredibly warm and important — and it had dissolved like sugar in tea.

Leo pulled the blanket tighter and dreamed on. But the warmth did not return.

Skukla knew nothing of these small cataclysms. Its consciousness, vast and slow as the melting of glaciers, was busy investigating. It pulsed with a question that was not a word, but a sensation — like a sudden chill under a blanket, or the feeling that you’ve left the light on in another room.

«What... touched my dream?»

This mental whisper crawled along its tentacles. Wherever it passed, there hung Skukla’s main treasures — the Sparks of Sorrow. Thousands, millions of tiny lights, brought from stolen toys. They slowly transferred their glow to the darkness, like batteries powering a huge, sad machine.

Each spark had a name. Not a word-name. A feeling-name.

The Spark of the First Bicycle. Golden. Warm. It remembered the wind in a child’s hair, the thrill of balance, the scraped knee that didn’t matter because I did it, I did it, I rode all by myself!

The Spark of the Secret Fort. Emerald green. It remembered whispered passwords, stolen cookies, the sacred oath never to tell grown-ups.

The Spark of the Last Goodbye. Pale blue. It remembered a hug that lasted too long, a door closing, a promise to write. You won’t forget me, will you?

Skukla held them all. And they held it.

This lulled it. But now the rhythm was broken.

«Something is wrong,» it thought. «Something is... missing.»

And that thought, once born, would not leave.

«What if you don’t want to find what you’re looking for?» whispered a tiny voice from somewhere deep within. «What if the answer is worse than the question?»

Skukla ignored the voice. It had been ignoring it for millennia.

Part 2: The Trail of Uninvited Guests and Artifacts of Emptiness

The most sensitive tentacle twitched like a cat’s whisker.

The tentacle was long enough to wrap around a moon, and thin enough to feel the weight of a single fallen eyelash.

It was the most sensitive part of a being who had spent eternity trying not to feel anything at all.

At its very tip, beside a fading pink spark, hung a trace. Not a scratch, but something like an energy imprint, resembling a curl of steam on cold glass.

Skukla mentally touched it.

In its consciousness, like on the screen of an old projector, images flickered:

A flash of unnaturally white light.

A vibration — fast, nervous, unlike the smooth currents of the Edge.

A smell (yes, thoughts have smells!) — of sweet pollen, burnt marshmallow, and... mischievous curiosity.

«Pimks,» Skukla’s consciousness recognized. «Small. Noisy. Why?»

Irritation, warm and viscous as tar, crawled from its centre. It was not evil. It was like the annoyance of a person woken in the middle of the night by a silly question.

But Skukla couldn’t turn over. The Edge did not turn. It only waited.

Skukla reached a tentacle toward the nearest “collection” — a swarm of lost toys, slowly circling in the void. Its thought slid over them like an inner voice:

«A doll... glass eyes... but no reflection of stars in them. Where is the girl who used to brush your hair? Does she remember you, little doll? Or has she forgotten?»

The doll did not answer. But somewhere in its glass eyes, a single tear of light rolled down.

«A toy car... the wheels have stopped. Do you remember speed? Do you remember the wind in your “face”? Or is it just... silence now?»

The car’s wheels twitched. Just once. Then stopped again.

«A construction set... the pieces don’t fit. Is the instruction lost? Or... are there simply no hands to assemble it? No small, sticky hands. No laughter. No “look what I made, Mama!“»

The construction set rattled softly. A single piece — a tiny red brick — fell out and floated away.

Skukla watched it go. And something inside it ached. Just a little. Just enough.

Somewhere in the vast collection, there was a hole. Not a physical hole — a hole in the pattern. A place where a spark should have been, but wasn’t. And that absence had a shape. A shape Skukla could not remember, but could not forget. A shape that felt like... two buttons. Two black, shiny buttons. And the thought of them made something inside Skukla ache with a pain it had no name for.

It wanted only one thing — to sleep and dream of what it had forgotten. It seemed to it that if it collected all the brightest, most desired toys from across the Universe, their glow, like a key, would unlock the door to that very memory. But it wasn’t working. The toys only reminded it of what they lacked.

And this trace was like a persistent knock on that door. It could not be ignored.

«Find. Learn. Soothe. So I can sleep.»

But even as it thought this, the tiny voice whispered again: «What if the answer is worse than the question?»

Skukla ignored it.

Part 3: The Birth of the Search Mist and Its Briefing

Skukla could not move from its place. It was the Edge. But it could create a tracker.

From its main mass, as if from a ball of giant threads, a clot separated. It was smaller, faster, and more curious. This was the Search Mist.

Inside it, like fish in an aquarium, swam tiny glowing droplets — fragments of others’ emotions that Skukla had collected over centuries:

A drop of a child’s disappointment over a broken toy car. It tasted like salt and why me?

A bubble of adult weariness, the kind that comes after a long day of work. It tasted like cold coffee and tomorrow will be the same.

A spark of fear of losing a friend. It tasted like a held breath and please don’t go.

The Mist did not speak in words. It communicated by resonance — directed waves of sensation. It hovered before its creator, and a wordless conversation took place between them.

The Mist emitted a vibration of questioning trepidation: «I am. What to seek?»

Skukla responded with a heavy, humming wave of unease, into which it wove the image of the trace — that very curl of steam with a taste of curiosity.

The Mist caught the image and responded with a quick, action-ready pulsation: «Understood. Following the scent. Will find the source of the noise.»

But Skukla held it back. From its consciousness separated one more tiny thought-droplet and merged into the Mist. It was a memory-map — a constellation of faint lights, marking the places where the fabric of reality was thinnest.

«Seek not only the trace. Seek... the holes. Places where the fabric of reality is thinner. Where they might have slipped through.»

The Mist trembled with the new task — this was no longer mere pursuit, but an investigation of anomalies. It felt a thrill of excitement.

«What if I find something dangerous?» the Mist pulsed.

«Then you will return,» Skukla replied. «And we will think of something else.»

«And if I don’t return?»

Skukla was silent for a long moment. Then: «Then I will create another. And another. Until the question is answered.»

The Mist shivered. It did not know whether to be comforted or frightened. It chose to be curious.

«What if I get lost?» the Mist pulsed.

The Mist didn’t say the rest. That it was terrified. That it had never been away from Skukla before. That it didn’t know if it was brave enough to do this alone.

But it wouldn’t say it. Not now. Not when Skukla needed it to be strong.

It would carry the fear itself. Quietly. That’s what explorers did.

«Then you will find your way back,» Skukla said. «Or I will find you. Either way — you will not be alone.»

«One more thing,» Skukla added. «If you find the source... do not harm it. Do not frighten it. Just... watch. And report.»

«Why?»

«Because,» Skukla said slowly, «I have a feeling that what I am looking for... is also looking for me.»

The Mist was silent. Then, quietly: «What if I find something... sad?»

«Then you will bring it back. And we will be sad together.»

«I will not fail you.»

«I know,» Skukla said. «That is why I chose you.»

Part 4: An Expedition Through the Layers of the Edge

The Search Mist rushed forward. It did not fly, but dissolved and reappeared a little further on, like a ghost skipping through space.

Its path became a fascinating investigation. It moved through the “layers” of the Edge:

Here was the Layer of Sleeping Dust: Myriads of tiny, cold pebbles, each of which was a forgotten dream or an unspoken “sorry.” They rang softly, like glass beads, as the Mist flew through them.

One pebble whispered: «I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.»

Another sighed: «I wish I had been braver.»

The Mist listened, and felt something it had never felt before: sadness. Not its own. But it felt it. Deep in its core, a tiny droplet of sorrow formed. It added it to its collection.

And now the Belt of Time Fragments: The strangest place. Here floated shards — not of stone, but of moments.

One shard glowed with a drop of first rain on an unknown planet.

Another held the quiet sigh of a child falling asleep without a bedtime story.

The Mist, following Skukla’s instruction, searched among them for “holes” — fresh fractures. And found one!

A small one, with uneven edges. From it still came a light, warm breeze, smelling of... gingerbread and pine. Nothing like the Edge! This was the trace!

«Found it!» the Mist pulsed triumphantly. «The trail is fresh. Warm. Alive. It leads... outward.»

It swam past sleeping nebulae and finally surfaced in a place where space became like a giant, shimmering soap foam.

This was the Planet of Bubbles.

Billions of transparent spheres peacefully floated in weightlessness, quietly snoring. The trail the Mist was following led straight here and... got lost in this rainbow chaos.

The Mist froze. Its cloud compressed into a wary, pulsing ball.

«Well,» it thought. «This is going to be harder than I thought.»

It tried to send Skukla a report-resonance: «Trail leads to the world of dreams. To foam of rainbows. Lost.»

The answer came not immediately, heavy and sleepy: «Dig deeper. Into dreams. They remember everything... even if they themselves don’t know.»

The Mist plunged into the foam.

It did not know what it would find. It only knew that it would not return until it did.

Part 5: An Interrogation in a Dream and a Troubling Discovery

The Planet of Bubbles was a haystack. And the Mist was looking for a needle that did not want to be found.

It listened. Not with ears, but with its entire being. It was searching for the echo of that very “smell” — the vibration of Pimks, the splash of a portal.

And then it felt it. A faint, barely perceptible response. Not from a bubble. From the dream of one bubble. From one who slept not just the sleep of grass, but a complex, multi-layered sleep, full of images and... memories.

The Mist smoothly floated toward one of the medium-sized bubbles, which twitched in its sleep, taking the shape of either a starship or a spiral galaxy. Inside this bubble, in its very core, slept a being named Lova.

The bubble was warm. Not the warmth of a star, but the warmth of a sleeping body. The Mist felt it through its entire being — a soft, pulsing heat, like a heartbeat heard through a pillow.

The tracker of the Edge prepared for interrogation. It gently, like fog, enveloped the sleeping bubble.

Inside Lova’s dream, it saw not just pictures. It saw the imprint of an event. Like a photograph on water.

An image flickered: a strange silvery “pancake” (as the Mist interpreted the ship), nervously blinking with lights.

A vibration of fear and determination was felt.

And there was... a sound. Not real, but an echo of a sound that left a trace in the bubble’s memory: «SECRET!»

The Mist trembled. This was a WORD. At the Edge, there were no words. This was a powerful, alien vibration. It immediately sent a new resonance to Skukla, embedding in it this image and the echo of the word.

There was no answering resonance. There was only a long, heavy pause.

And then... from the depths of the Edge came such a deep, such a sorrowful mental SIGH that the Mist almost dissolved from sadness. Skukla was not just worried. It... ached. This word, this image — they woke in it something old, deeper than sleep.

«What does it mean?» the Mist pulsed, frightened.

«It means...» Skukla began, then stopped. «It means I have forgotten something. Something important. Something I should never have forgotten.»

«What?»

«I don’t know. That’s the problem.»

Lova, in his dream, felt a cold touch and became uneasy. His bubble construction in the dream crumbled. The central bubble twitched, and from it, like a mental exhale, flew a response impulse — not words, but a sensation: «Sorry. Was sleeping. Bubbles sometimes drift to the Edge in their sleep. I know nothing. Don’t be angry.»

This was the standard reaction of bubbles. They always apologized. They were never responsible for anything. They were perfect witnesses who never remembered anything.

The Mist detached itself. The bubbles were not involved. They were simply sleeping.

Having collected all the information, the Mist began to dissolve, preparing to return to Skukla with its report.

And Lova... Lova woke up.

Not fully, but the way one wakes upon hearing a strange sound at night. His central bubble (which never burst) trembled. The bubble’s sleepy brain registered: «The Mist came. Asked about Pimks. About a portal. Must... must warn...»

But there was no one to warn. And Lova, after circling in place, sank back into sleep.

Lova didn’t say the rest. That he had always been different. That the other bubbles never noticed him. That he had spent his whole life feeling like a mistake.

But this — this was the first time someone had noticed him. And that noticing felt... like a purpose.

He would carry that hope himself. Quietly. That’s what the different ones did.

He did not know what he was warning against. He only knew that somewhere, something had noticed him. And that the noticing felt... personal.

He had always been different. And for the first time in his long, sleepless life, he wondered if being different was not a curse... but a purpose.

The troubling thought hid deep inside, in the very core of his strange, multi-layered consciousness.

But the thought did not disappear. It waited.

And somewhere, on a small blue planet, in a room above a café, a Pimk who had broken the most important law of all was looking at the stars and thinking of home.

He did not know that something was looking back.

And somewhere far away, in the depths of the Edge, Skukla stirred. Not a movement of the body — it had no body. A movement of consciousness.

«Something is coming,» it thought. «Something... familiar. Something warm.»

It did not know what it was. But it knew it had to wait.

And waiting, for the first time in its endless existence, felt almost... exciting.