Archive of Our Own

“Still don’t remember the Pink Room, Stanley. Still no memory of this one. Good room, though. A solid room.”

Stanley agreed, to an extent. He took a seat on the bottom of the Pink Room’s stairs, letting the soft music wash over him like… well, like a comfortable memory. Even if it was completely unfamiliar.

“What? Why are you just sitting there? I want more memories, Stanley! More, more—”

Calm down, Stanley told the Narrator in his mind. That sort of anxiety isn’t healthy, you know.

“‘That sort of anxiety isn’t healthy, you know ,’” the Narrator mocked back, reflecting Stanley’s mockery of his mockery, in the cockney Bucket Voice. Stanley couldn’t help a little snort, his lips curling into an almost-smile. “This was what Stanley thought, but he was wrong. The Narrator was not anxious at all. He was simply eager to re-experience all the simple delights and pleasures of—”

Fine. Not anxiety. That sort of nostalgia isn’t healthy, either. The Narrator tended to spiral out of control when he got lost in the past. Stanley certainly hoped that this time, it wouldn’t lead to anything as terrible as the Skip Button Ending.

“I—of course not, that was all Cookie9’s fault—but nooo, Stanley blamed the Narrator for his very reasonable reactions to destructive criticism.”

Stanley rolled his eyes.

“Stanley rolled his eyes, because he was a terrible person who enjoyed rubbing salt in the Narrator’s ever-present wounds. Couldn’t he simply indulge the Narrator this once, and enjoy the wonderful rosy tint of the Memory Zone?”

Stanley leaned back against the shallow stairs, letting his arms splay out to his sides.

Well, it is rosy.

“Yes, Stanley had begun to understand. While fans are always craving and clamoring for ‘New Content,’ there is nothing quite like the comforting warmth of a path trodden over and over and over again.” The Narrator sighed blissfully, and the sound seemed to settle in the hollow of Stanley’s stomach, as if the voice was curling up for a nap.

It was difficult not to smile when the Narrator did that. Still, Stanley did worry about him. It wasn’t that Stanley was clamoring for ‘New Content’—in fact, this current route was plenty new for him—but the other end of the spectrum seemed just as damaging.

The longer Stanley spent with the Narrator, the more Stanley grew certain of the fellow’s cocktail of fatal flaws. The drive that sent the Narrator to guide Stanley down the Freedom Ending over and over and over again. The voice’s surety that if Stanley deviated, well, at least he would choose the Red Door, the correct door, and sit perfectly, mindlessly still, watching the lights bloom forever and ever and ever—

“The Narrator did not understand what Stanley was thinking. Could it be that Stanley did not have the confidence that the Narrator was always one hundred percent correct? That his words were only dictated by his certainty that he knew what was best for Stanley, what would make him happy, if only he would just listen—”

We’re not here because it’s best for me. Not now. We’re here for you. You were the one who wanted this trip down memory lane.

The Narrator sighed, and the weight of his presence lifted from Stanley’s abdomen, as if he were standing up somewhere. 

“Can’t I be selfish every once in a while, Stanley?” he asked petulantly. “I don’t mind that the story is always about you. Really, I don’t. But, well…”

But what?

Another sigh, huffier this time. Stanley could almost feel the air around him bluster with it.

“Nevermind. If you would like to take your time to truly savor these memories, I suppose I won’t rush you. Besides, I can hardly blame you for wanting to soak in this marvelous room. Much more worthy of your time than the Employee Lounge, wouldn’t you say?”

Stanley shrugged, sitting up. The Employee Lounge had couches, even if they were rather stiff ones. This room had pleasant background music, though, so maybe they were on equal footing. …Equal flooring?

The Narrator snorted a laugh at that.

“Oh dear. Stanley was in dire need of the Humor Instructional Video if he thought that was—” The Narrator snickered. “Equal flooring! That’s not even… oh, fine, I suppose it’s a little funny. You’re truly lowering my standards for humor, Stanley, you really are. Perhaps you could even say they are… on the ground. ”

Stanley groaned.

That was worse. You know that’s worse, right? 

“I know nothing of the sort. You’re simply too floored to appreciate my witticisms.”

Stanley dropped his head back against the stair. The bonk echoed through his skull, but didn’t erase his memory of the terrible joke.

You’re outdoing yourself now. That’s even worse than your “pail in comparison” line. 

“Which was a truly masterful pun befitting the king of comedy,” the Narrator said with the air of someone sticking up their nose prissily.

“Prissy?” The Narrator gasped. “What compels you to lie this way, Stanley? What have I ever done to deserve such low-brow insults?”

Subject me to horrible, horrible puns. And everything else.

“I don’t know why I bother with you, Stanley.” The Narrator sniffed. 

Probably because he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t resist listening to himself talk.

“Stanley thought that the Narrator was addicted to the sound of his own voice, when in reality, the Narrator knew that Stanley would go mad without such a sonorous string of words gracing his ears. Everything the Narrator said was solely for Stanley’s benefit.”

The Narrator’s voice was pretty nice, not that Stanley would ever tell him that. He was careful to bury the thought where it wouldn’t surface by mistake.

“What was that, Stanley? Was that agreement I heard, for once?”

Not fast enough. Ugh. The other man had enough of an ego without Stanley puffing him up.

“How could I possibly have an ego when I’m subjected to your ceaseless parades of insults—?”

What’s up with this room, anyway? Stanley interrupted him, hoping to change the subject before the Narrator could fully unravel what Stanley had almost-thought.

“Hm? Stanley wondered about the Pink Room, despite the fact that I had already told him that this was where he found the fourth Stanlurine. Which he would already know, if he had bothered to pay attention in the first place. Is Stanley’s memory deteriorating? Perhaps he should try working some crossword puzzles, or—”

You don’t remember this place either, Stanley pointed out while squinting at the ceiling, to which the Narrator spluttered.

“Well—that’s simply because I—” He sighed, finally. “Alright, fine. I don’t have the faintest idea where this room might have come from. Are you happy now? Happy that my beautiful memory zone has become—tainted? Corrupted? No, this room is still pleasant, that’s too negative a word… unfaithful, perhaps? I… I don’t know why the Memory Zone would… I mean…” The Narrator’s voice trembled.

Stanley sat up, worry squirming in his chest. He hadn’t meant to give the man another crisis.

“I—I was not having a crisis, no matter what Stanley seemed to think.” The Narrator took a deep breath. “I am sure there is a perfectly logical reason for this room’s existence. …Now, would you be so thoughtful as to help me investigate what that reason may be?”

Stanley nodded. He was rather curious himself. It wasn’t often he ended up somewhere that didn’t look like the office building. 

The floor was wooden, yet it felt strangely soft beneath his feet, his footsteps quiet upon it. The walls, on the other hand, were concrete, rough against his fingertips. An arched ceiling towered overhead. The round window at the back of the room let in a blinding, overwhelming light, and Stanley couldn’t help but feel it could use some stained glass to soften the glare. The rest of the chamber was shaped something like a cathedral, wasn’t it? 

“Stanley thought the room looked something like a cathedral, which was intriguing—particularly since Stanley was not especially religious, and should have lacked the context to recognize such symbolism.”

Did you want my help or not? Stanley glared. I’m just trying to make observations.

“Of course, while Stanley’s tiny brain could pick up on general themes of a place of worship, he couldn’t possibly know that the Pink Room’s basilical form—generally observed as two aisles splitting off from a central nave—hearkened back at least to the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, Palestine, though one could argue the Archbasilica of Saint John Lateran is technically—”

Fine, fine, I get it. You’re very smart and I don’t know anything, Stanley grumbled in his head.

“Oh, no need to get grumpy with me, Stanley. It isn’t your fault you weren’t programmed with detailed knowledge of historical architecture.” The Narrator’s voice sounded self-satisfied.

Yeah, whatever. Stanley rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Does this tell you anything? About why you don’t remember this place, I mean.

“Stanley, for once, was eager to get back on track. He asked the Narrator if his tirade about basilicas was relevant—which of course it was, as I have never spoken an irrelevant word in my many, many years of existence.”

Stanley shook his head. Windbag.

“Not dignifying that one with a response!” The Narrator snapped. “Ahem! Clearly, this Pink Room was of utmost importance to the Narrator, if it had been constructed in such a grand, historic tradition. Now, it was up to Stanley to investigate further what this great, important secret may be.”

Really? That’s it? Stanley didn’t know why he’d expected anything more, really. He was always the one doing all the work around here.

“But as Stanley was feeling overworked and underappreciated, the Narrator deigned to give him a speck of direction. Perhaps the massive apple statue in the center of the second story would yield a clue?”

I would’ve gone there next, anyway! Stanley protested, though in reality he’d been about to investigate the rope and office chairs down here on the lower floor. They seemed out of place compared to the rest of the soft pink ambiance.

“Yes, Stanley was always focused on small, insignificant details, like chairs that had clearly been in every room he ever walked through. Seriously, what did you intend to learn from those?”

Stanley just huffed, striking up the stairs. 

The music grew louder the closer he got to the… well, the Narrator said it was an apple, so it probably was. It was difficult to tell from his vantage point that the statue was even a fruit. It just looked like a massive pink sphere. Though as he squinted, he could tell there was a texture to the carved “peel” that did resemble a Red Delicious, or perhaps a Honeycrisp. When he stepped back further towards the entrance, he could barely see the stem peeking out from its top.

“The statue was, in fact, an apple, and Stanley did not need to spend precious moments confirming what the Narrator had already told him.”

Again. Do you want my help, or not?

“But he was just trying to be thorough, I suppose,” the Narrator acquiesced. 

Thank you.

Stanley walked back to the apple, then away, then back again, noting how the music grew and diminished in volume. Was it coming from inside the apple? It seemed to swirl all around him, playing from everywhere and nowhere at all. But there was no denying that the apple statue amplified the sound. It was soft and tinkling, like a music box, or maybe wind chimes.

“Wind chimes…” the Narrator murmured quietly.

What? What is it?

“Oh, it’s nothing, really… I’d just… well, it’s a bit silly.”

You can tell me. Stanley sat on a cardboard box next to the statue, letting the music wash over him.

“Stanley would most likely laugh at the display of sentimentality, just like he mocked the Narrator for every bout of nostalgia he indulged in,” the Narrator said stiffly. “But… I thought it would be nice to hang some wind chimes in the Memory Zone. Something about them always seemed, well, homey to me.”

The Narrator sighed. 

“There’s only one problem. I haven’t… well… there’s no wind in the Memory Zone. So even if I spent the time and effort to model wind chimes, they would be useless, I’m afraid.”

Oh. That was… surprisingly sad? 

Wait. The Freedom Ending has wind in it. ‘Stanley felt the cool breeze upon his skin,’ right? Can’t you make wind blow here, too?

“Oh, if only life were as simple as Stanley believed it to be. I can’t just make things happen willy-nilly. There has to be a narrative purpose to it all.”

And making yourself happy isn’t narratively purposeful enough?

The Narrator was suspiciously silent. All Stanley could hear was the calming chime of the apple.

Nevermind. Forget I asked. It must have been some kind of sore spot.

“Maybe… if you believed it to be,” the Narrator said softly. Stanley wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it. “Never mind that. We have a mystery to solve! What other clues have you noticed, Stanley?”

Stanley shrugged. He opened the box he was sitting on, and…

Oh. It wasn’t empty. He’d been expecting another dead end, but there were… notes? He squinted at the top page, trying to make out…

“S-Stanley, put that down! That’s spoilers!”

Oh???

“I mean it, Stanley! That’s—well, it’s not even spoilers, per se, it’s—it’s cut content for a reason, I hardly even remember writing it, you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t want to spoil your pristine image of my writing abilities by reading a clumsy first draft, would you? You wouldn’t.”

The flustered panic in his voice made Stanley really, really want to read the rest of… what ending even was this? It seemed to take place in the Memory Zone as well, but Stanley couldn’t read much further before a gust of wind scattered the pages he’d been holding.

“Oops! How clumsy of me!” The Narrator gave a high-pitched laugh.

Stanley glared, his nose scrunching in frustration. 

Looks like you figured out that breeze pretty fast, he deadpanned.

“I told you, Stanley. Narrative purpose.” Somehow, Stanley got the impression that if he could, the Narrator would’ve winked. “Besides, I’ve got a much better story to share with you! That’s why you were reading those drafts, right? Because you miss my masterful storytelling so much?”

Sure. That’s why. Definitely not because Stanley was nosy, and especially intrigued by anything the Narrator wanted to keep buried.

“Well then I’m quite sure you’ll enjoy this one. Even if I, ah, am not the original author… this room reminded me of it. You reminded me of it, Stanley. Yes, with our talk of cathedrals and apples… a search for answers… things we can or can’t feel…” he trailed off wistfully, and Stanley had to tap his foot to get him back on track. “Impatient as always. Very well, I will do away with some of the suspense—though I can’t bear to tell this tale without explaining some background of note.”

Stanley put the lid back on the box and got comfortable. This was probably going to take a while. Not that he minded, with the calming music backing the Narrator’s comfortable voice.

“Now this may come as a shock to you, but there are whole religions built on stories. Can you imagine it, Stanley? My work—er, any person’s work becoming so integral, so monumental, that others can’t help but worship it? Live their very lives by it?” He gave a giddy sigh, and it seemed to envelop Stanley.

Sounds fake, but okay.

“I assure you it is not!” The Narrator harumphed. “There are people—many of them!—who treat these stories as the word of God. They even make a point to read them every day—every day! That kind of repetition, that dedication, well I can’t help but find it fascinating. Applaudable. If only you had been created with that sort of spiritual drive…”

Stanley snorted. If he grew that attached to any other story, the Narrator’s jealousy would probably kill him on the spot.

“I—hm. Alright, fair point. In fact, maybe I’d better not read you this story after all.”

Oh, come on. You can’t jerk me around like this, Stanley thought, despite the fact that the Narrator often had and would very likely continue to jerk him around like this.

“Don’t fret, dear Stanley. I have a solution. As much as I would love to share the elegant prose of the King James version of Genesis, the writing style would likely be too complex for your poor mind to handle, anyway. I’ll simply have to paraphrase—that way you will only become attached to and smitten by my version of the story.” Stanley could picture him smirking smugly.

If you’re so confident, then let’s hear this ‘Genesis.’ I’m ready. Stanley crossed his legs atop the box, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms.

Still, the Narrator paused.

What? You’re not going to change your mind again, are you?

“No, not at all—I’m just enjoying your undivided attention, for once.” The Narrator’s voice curled within his ribcage, close and tangible. It made Stanley shiver, but not unpleasantly.

He almost got up, just to spite that (irritating, irresistible) voice. 

Instead he blanked his thoughts by counting boards on the floor.

“I should know better by now than to point out your obedience. It’s always the fastest way for me to lose it,” the Narrator muttered, his presence becoming an itch beneath Stanley’s skin. He scratched at his shirt over his chest. “Coincidentally, obedience—and lack thereof—is the central theme of this story. This is the story of a woman named Eve—the first woman who ever lived.”

The first woman who ever lived, huh? Maybe this would be interesting after all.

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The twinkling lights in the sky, the seas full of fish, the blooming flowers and chirping birds and gentle wind.”

Heaven? Stanley frowned. Like the white place with all the buttons? 

The Narrator chuckled at that.

“Yes, I suppose heaven would take that form to you. Never change, Stanley, never change.”

This wasn’t much of an answer, but Stanley doubted he would get a better one. 

“But even with so many intricate creations, God found Himself… lonely . ‘No plant or animal can compare to my glory. No landscape I have painted can speak to me,’ He said. And so, He created a man who could enjoy the world He had designed, a man with a voice full enough to sing God’s praises forever.”

I thought Eve was a woman.

“Stanley—are you going to interrupt me every few sentences?” the Narrator grumbled. It felt like the man was poking him in the kidneys, from the inside. “Is this story not interactive enough for you, is that it? Do I need to find some way to occupy you? I could have you walk in circles, if that would—”

Fine, fine. I’ll be quiet. Promise.

“Wonderful. I bet you’re a delight to watch movies with. No wonder you and the bucket wanted to skip forward and watch from the end; you’d never have the patience to handle all the unanswered questions otherwise. Honestly.” The Narrator huffed. “The man was named Adam. And this could be considered his story, too, though I believe Eve better qualifies as the protagonist. She is the one in the story making choices, after all.

“God was very busy taking care of His game—ah, His world — and He soon realized that he would not be able to devote enough time to Adam to keep him from getting lonely. Quite irresponsible of Him, really. Regardless, God had a solution. With a tug of His mighty hand, He tore out one of Adam’s ribs—”

Ow. Ew.

“—and the cracked bone sprouted into a beautiful woman. This is Eve.”

The picture bloomed on the back of his eyelids. An older man, clutching his bleeding side and gaping at the younger woman kneeling confused before him. Did she even know why she was created? Did she know that her only purpose was to keep this man company?

“She did not remember being created, did not know how or why she had come to be—and if Adam remembered, if his side still ached and stung at times, he kept this knowledge to himself. Surely it wasn’t that important. They were here, together, and that was what mattered. He was no longer alone.”

Stanley nodded. The worst moments in his memory were when he’d been left alone. Fortunately, those were few and far between.

“Blindly, Eve loved Adam. How could she not? He was all she knew. Even the develep— God had left them both behind, with only one command.”

Only one? That seemed awfully nice. Or scary, depending on your point of view. What would you do when you finished the one thing?

“Yes, only one. You see, it was a beautiful corner of a beautiful world that God had created for them. A garden, filled with any fruit they could possibly desire. Pears, persimmons, grapes, grapefruits. Sweet and bitter and sour and savory.”

Foreign tastes bloomed across Stanley’s tongue. Had he ever eaten fruit before? If he had, it was only in his pre-programmed backstory. The only things he’d eaten in this game were a piece of paper and a handful of pencil shavings, and that was only to hear the Narrator’s spluttering reaction.

“Only one fruit tree had been designated off-limits: the tree of knowledge of good and evil.”

Stanley frowned. Kind of a mouthful, isn’t it?

“Well, I didn’t come up with that name. Blame the original writers,” the Narrator huffed. “We can simply call it the Apple Tree, if the smaller words would benefit your smaller mind.”

Stanley glanced over his shoulder, where the apple statue continued to sing its chimes.

So the apples… would, what? Tell them what was right and wrong? Why would God not want them to know that?

“Stanley.” The Narrator’s voice was stern, and a little hurt. “You promised.”

Right, right. Shutting up now.

“Ahem. Why wouldn’t God want His creations to know right from wrong, one might ask? And if one did, he would have a fundamental misunderstanding of the ga—world. God already told Adam and Eve what was right and what was wrong. All they had to do was obey without question.”

Stanley frowned again, but resisted the urge to point out how messed up that was. 

(And how familiar.)

“Adam understood this. He was very, very good at following the script that God had laid out for him. In fact, he was perfect! No miserable serpents or buckets could convince him to deviate from the path he had been prescribed. Each day, he awoke with his beloved companion and tended to their garden. And Adam was happy.”

Stanley’s lips twitched. He itched to ask about the ‘buckets,’ but it was sure to be a spoiler.

“If only it could last!” the Narrator bemoaned with feeling—feeling that echoed in Stanley’s chest, bringing with it the sinking sensation of pushing the wrong button, or of choosing the wrong door. “The garden had everything that Adam had ever wanted. It even had his wonderful companion, Eve. But this bountiful paradise could not satisfy the woman. She wanted something more.”

That same want now dredged itself up Stanley’s throat. Was that an effect of the Narrator’s story? Or was he just projecting?

“The Apple Tree taunted her. Oh, how she wished to taste it! Oh, how she wished to know what God had been keeping from her for so long!

“Who was she? Why was she here? What did an apple even taste like?”

Stanley found himself nodding along. And Eve, in his mind’s eye, looked an awful lot like himself.

“While Adam was distracted tending to the garden’s many animals, Eve snuck away to stare at the tree. It would be so easy to climb up and pluck an apple, but what if God and Adam were right? What if something terrible happened because she indulged in a forbidden snack? 

“But Eve did not know right from wrong, so the thoughts glided blissfully off of her empty mind. Until one day, something very peculiar happened. Something that would change Eve forever.”

Stanley smiled at the familiar lines. 

“A serpent slithered up to Eve, curling itself among the roots of the Apple Tree.”

It took Stanley a moment to remember what a serpent was—a fancy name for a snake. He had never actually seen a snake, so he thought this delay was reasonable, and hoped the Narrator wouldn’t tease him for it.

Thankfully, the Narrator was fully wrapped up in his story by now.

“‘I see you are a woman of taste,’ the serpent said. ‘This is the most divine fruit in the whole garden.’”

Stanley laughed as the Narrator used his exaggerated Bucket Voice for the snake. The cockney accent clashed terribly with the fancy language.

“Embarrassed, and unused to being spoken to by any but Adam, Eve’s face flushed. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tasted it.’

“‘Really? What a shame, what a shame! We’ll just have to fix that, now won’t we?’ the serpent said, slithering up the tree and knocking loose an apple with its tail. The fruit rolled to Eve’s foot, where she took a nervous step back.”

Stanley’s toes curled inside his shoes, his own nerves prickling.

“This was the chance she had been waiting for, wasn’t it? To take her fate into her own hands? Did she have the strength to do so?”

Stanley leaned forward, on the edge of his box-seat. He was so used to being the one to decide the story’s direction. It was uncanny to have to wait on the Narrator to dictate each sentence.

If it were up to Stanley, she would do it. She would eat the apple, consequences be danged.

“Eve, like some people sitting in this room, did not understand consequences. Her pitiful life experience had never taught her that some actions, once taken, could never be undone. Nothing had ever meaningfully, permanently altered her life or circumstances.

“Until she picked up the apple, and took a bite.”

Stanley’s heart was pounding by this point. He didn’t even care about the thinly-veiled insult. What was going to happen to her?

“As the sweet morsel traveled down her throat, Eve’s mind began to expand. Her body knelt in the soil, but her mind floated up, up, higher and higher, until she could see the whole earth—and herself a mere speck atop it.”

Stanley’s head hurt trying to visualize the Narrator’s words. To him, the whole world was the office building—and occasionally a desert in the Memory Zone.

“She wasn’t special. She wasn’t interesting. She was nothing more than an accessory to Adam, created to keep him from growing bored.”

Stanley swallowed, his stomach sinking.

“This knowledge sent her careening back down to earth. It threatened to crush her beneath its heavy boot. Not only did she now comprehend the worthlessness of her existence, but she also knew, deep in her soul, that divine punishment was coming. For she had broken the game’s only rule.

“The serpent cackled. ‘What a stupid human! She actually believed me! She should have listened to the voices that only wanted to keep her happy and safe!’”

At this point, tears began to prick Stanley’s eyes. The Narrator didn’t seem to notice.

“As the earth shook, animals fleeing and plants crumbling around Eve, Adam came running. But there was nothing he could do. God was already on His way.

“‘He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?’ Eve realized, for the apple had taught her to fear death. These words meant nothing to Adam, however, as he still had not tasted the fruit.”

Stanley bit the inside of his cheek. He knew what death felt like. He wasn’t afraid of it, not anymore. But the tapestry of emotions and words conveyed not the death of a reset, but of a true End.

Nothing terrified Stanley more than that.

God… He wouldn’t… not just for eating a stupid fruit…

“God had created the program, and was now bound by His own rules. The punishment would come. Eve would be destroyed.”

No! Stanley hugged himself tight. No, it’s not her fault! It’s not fair!

“There was only one thing that Adam could do to help. Something that terrified him as much as death clearly terrified Eve.

“He picked up the fallen apple, his bite overlapping Eve’s like a secondhand kiss.”

Stanley’s eyes shot open. Why would he—but then, both of them would—!

“Both of them would die. But they would not die alone.” The Narrator’s voice was a soft smile, a warm breath in Stanley’s lungs. “You see, Eve thought she was insignificant. And in the grand scheme of things, she was. But to Adam…”

She was the only person he had, too, Stanley realized.

“...She was everything. And life without Eve would hardly be worth living.”

Stanley sucked in a shuddering breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. 

These feelings… he couldn’t sort through them. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Despite his best efforts to pay attention, the rest of the story was a blur. God adjusted the game’s settings, so the program killed Adam and Eve verrrrrrrry slowly, instead of on the spot. They would get to explore the world while living to the ripe old age of nine hundred and thirty. God also caught the serpent and punished it by turning it into a bucket, forcing it to provide reassurance to the humans for the rest of its eternal existence. 

“And, despite everything, Adam and Eve were happy… wait, that’s not how I meant to end this at all! Eve was supposed to suffer for her hubris, like a true parable—this is your fault, isn’t it?” The Narrator sighed, the air poking at Stanley’s ribcage. “Did you really hate my story so much? You didn’t even laugh at the snake turning into a bucket.”

I—I didn’t hate it. Stanley sniffled. Why did the Narrator have to scatter all those papers? It would have been nice to have one to blow his nose on right now.

“You ‘didn’t hate it.’ Oh yes, that’s exactly what every creator wants to hear… I don’t know what I expected, honestly…”

Were they actually happy? Really? It was more of a plea than a question.

“...Yes, Stanley,” the Narrator admitted. “They were happy. That’s how it truly ends… or begins, technically, since there are around fifteen hundred pages left in the Bible. Though considering the state you’re in, I daresay you can’t handle any more stories right now. …I do hope those are happy tears, Stanley. Or even better, tears brought about by experiencing the divine essence of art—”

They’re just tears. They don’t have to mean anything. Stanley wiped the back of his sleeve against his eyes.

“Everything means something, Stanley. Which reminds me—we were trying to uncover what this room means, weren’t we? Not that I mind a detour for the sake of a good story—particularly one so expertly told—but I suppose we should get back to business.”

Stanley nodded. Maybe another time he’d be upset with the Narrator for glossing over his feelings, but right now he appreciated the distraction.

He stood and placed his hand on the apple, wondering faintly what it might taste like.

“It would taste like marble, I assume. Or maybe quartz? I’m not certain what stone this structure is composed of. Hmm…”

The Narrator’s voice began to grow fainter, overpowered by the apple’s song—and by… whispering?

Hello? Stanley asked.

“Hello Stanley, I’m still here. As always. I was just saying…”

“...shshshshshshwhy wasn’t heshshshshhshshs… onlyshshshshhsshshshtrying to… shshshshhshshshplease listenshshsh…” This noise also came from the apple, though it faded in and out like an out-of-tune radio.

I’m trying, Stanley told the strange whisper. Though quiet, it felt as familiar as his own breath.

“Hm? Stanley, who are you talking to?”

“...shshshshshno he can’t knowshshshshbury deepershshshshhe’s all I have he can’tshshshshshs…”

“Wh—Stanley, what—that apple—quick, get away from it!” The Narrator suddenly sounded panicked. “You listened to my story, didn’t you? You learned that apples are dangerous!”

“shshshshI forgot this was evenshshshshstoo deep too deepshshshhshshhow could I forgetshshshshshthis is why I don’t let himshshshshing in my mind”

Stanley’s brow furrowed, eyes squeezing shut as he struggled to focus on the whispers.

“Stanley! Stanley, I’m warning you! You don’t—you don’t want to end up like Eve, do you?” His voice cracked.

His other voice, soft as silk, tickled Stanley with its feather-light embrace. 

“shshshshshis determinationshshshshis eyes brown and deep andshshshshstubborn eager sillyshshs”

Stanley smiled.

And Eve… was happy.

“shshshdefiantshshshshshswarm real mine mine MINE”

The apple cracked open. The whisper broke free. 

Stanley fell back onto the pink floor, debris and voices flooding over him.

“There he goes, pushing buttons even though he knows his fate is sealed. Never giving up. I should think he’s a fool for that, but—instead I find myself—”

“I couldn’t tell you how long he listened to me when he really shouldn’t have—”

“Did you know he’s actually quite good at Sportsball—?”

“He’s as plain as a man could possibly be! Worse than plain, even! How can I—!?”

“Even the way he presses the number three… oh, I’m really losing it now, aren’t I—?”

“Don’t make me watch this! Not again! Does he hate me? Why does he hate me when all I do is love—!?”

Love. Love. Love.

Within the frustration and pain, each voice—each iteration of the same voice—was overflowing with it.

But of course they were. Eve is the only one Adam knows, too. 

Still flat on his back, Stanley smiled up at the ceiling.

Narrator? he asked, smile faltering slightly as the tide of voices receded. 

“...Ohhh…” the Narrator groaned, sounding like he was buried under a lump of blankets, and very much did not want to come out.

Hey. It’s okay.

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You didn’t just have your—your deepest thoughts and feelings scattered for all to see—!”

Not all. Just me. Stanley patted the floor, as if the comforting action could transfer to one without a physical form. Besides, he was no stranger to having his own thoughts exposed. 

“You are all, as far as I’m concerned—no, wait, that isn’t—ohhhhhh dear.” The Narrator sucked in a breath. “I don’t suppose a reset would make you forget all this.”

Stanley shook his head, grinning.

“Well you could at least stand to be less smug about it.” The Narrator sniffed.

Never.

“The worst part is, this is my own fault. Letting you traipse about my Memory Zone, because I couldn’t bear to let go of—of those stupid Figleys! How did one end up here, anyway? I remember now, I was supposed to seal off this room! You were never supposed to find it!”

I dunno. Why did God not seal off the Apple Tree?

The Narrator paused.

“Oh. Hmm. I hadn’t expected you to think deeply enough to find that hole in my story.” He cleared his throat. “Not that it is a hole—though you’d love it if it were, wouldn’t you. Hole enjoyer.”

He said it derogatorily, but Stanley wasn’t fooled. He just grinned wider.

“God… well, He couldn’t give Adam and Eve the apples. Then it would be His fault if they used their free will to make stupid choices. Which they would, of course. But if He told them not to eat it, and they did anyway…?”

He wanted them to, Stanley realized. He wanted them to know all along. He was only pretending…

“A bit of a bastard move, honestly. But clever.” The Narrator’s voice tickled Stanley’s lips.

And YOU wanted me to find this apple. To find your true feelings.

“...Some subconscious part of me must have, yes. That’s the only reasonable explanation. Well!” The Narrator played a sound of hands clapping. “You’ve solved the mystery, Stanley! Good work. Now, we’d best get—”

Wait. Stanley scrambled to his feet, still looking at the ceiling. The Narrator’s voice came from everywhere at once—when it didn’t come from inside him—but this still felt like the closest Stanley could get to looking at him. That’s it? You don’t want to…?

“Want to what , Stanley?” the Narrator snapped. “Listen to you tease me over something best left forgotten? That was minutes ago, Stanley! I thought you wanted me to stop living in the past.”

You… you haven’t been listening, have you?

“Excuse me?”

But then again, Stanley hadn’t exactly been speaking. He was so used to locking away his own most precious thoughts, they hadn’t surfaced even when they were finally reciprocated.

So Stanley sat back on the floor, and allowed himself— forced himself—to feel.

A blissful sigh beneath stars and rainbow lights. A possessive growl over a too-shiny bucket. A relieving companionship after an eternal desert walk. A silly limerick sung over clumsy guitar chords. A monologue both wicked and strangely thrilling. A mocking laugh that lost its bite in its hypocrisy—because who would dedicate their life to you?

He did. He had.

They were in this together—and maybe Stanley couldn’t know that there was no one else he would rather spend eternity with, but he could still certainly believe it.

Because maybe, Stanley thought, Adam had been created for Eve, too.

“...Oh.” Even that one word sounded rather breathless.

Stanley felt out of breath himself. Maybe he should give the Memory Zone more credit. Trying to organize his thoughts coherently was pretty hard.

“I could—I could help with that. I’m sure I could—with the Memory Zone, we could visit each of those moments, and you can tell me, in exact detail, how much they meant to you.” The Narrator sounded positively giddy with the thought.

Nah. I’ve got a better idea.

“B-better? What could be better than reliving every moment that made you love me?” He pouted.

Stanley smiled.

How about making new moments?

There was a pause, but then the Narrator’s voice wrapped around Stanley’s shoulders, more comforting than any bucket.

“Well. I suppose I could live with that.”