You step into the old room. The air is full of mothballs and age. The lamps are yellowing and their shades are adorned with tassels. This room was grand once. But now the wallpaper peels away like sunburned skin, and the air sits heavy. Much remains undiscovered here.

You mooch around knick-knacks and paddy whacks and trinkets of old, picking things up and putting them down. You try on a hat and admire yourself in the mirror. You pull a face. Hello. Who is that?

Then your eye catches something to the right, settled on a windowsill.

Ah! A Russian doll.

You pick up the wooden figure and admire its painted cheeks.

Hello, You. How are you today?

The lips lift slightly. The eyes blink.

“Fat like a baby,” it responds. “Enjoying the view.” It yawns. “All I do is watch. From the window I can see the garden. Branches dance. The wildlife plays. They die. More are born. I watch you and you watch me. I like my paint. My creator invested a great deal of time on me. They were particular about my eyes. I remember that. The brush was so fine. It was damp, tickling the corners as it drew me to life. The pattern on my coat tells a tale. I don’t know what it says. Perhaps you might desire to inspect it further? Oh “–

It breaks off into an exclamation as you twist it in half. The Matryoshka opens, and the next layer is revealed. 

Underneath the doll is green, and its eyebrows arch higher than the first.

“Hello!” it calls. “God, am I glad to feel the air. It wafts onto my surface, moving away the old. Hm. It’s rather dilapidated in here. Perhaps you should open a window. Flap a sheet. Disturb the dust, the quiet. How are you feeling? It is good to see a person. It is good to be released. However, I know there is more to come. I couldn’t deny them this pleasure. Please – open me – and place me to the side. I want to watch. I want to be released.” The eyes close and the mouth shuts. You gently twist open the doll and place this layer beside the other.

The doll below blinks rapidly and then smiles. 

“Well, hello there!” It smiles widely. “I haven’t seen the light of day for a while. How beautiful! How unexpected. How are you? What have you been doing today? I don’t do very much… I just stare at the inside of my shell, and I wait. I think, too. But I don’t have much to think about anymore. Why should I? I was created. There is no reason. I am here. What’s the point of thinking about it? So, I just wait. And I exist. Until someone like you opens me up. And I get to say hello. I get to look upon the planes of your face. It is a pleasant face. Perhaps one day you could paint it – like mine. I know there is paint on my face, even though I have never seen it. My creator was so patient. They took so much time.

I remember the color of their irises. Muddied gray and enlarged by the magnifier that was needed to see my intricacies. I am very detailed. There is a lot to discover on my skin. Inspect it. See the care. Open me up. See what lies underneath.”

So you do. One by one, you open the shells, lining them up in a row on the windowsill. They sit together, gathering in the faded light, each a little smaller, a little closer to the center. 

This doll is the size of an apple. It stares blankly ahead. You admire its paint. The curl of its eyelashes, framing flat but beautiful eyes. They turn to look at you suddenly. 

“You watch more when you aren’t seen.” It observes. “But I could see you all along,” it blinks those long eyelashes. “You just didn’t realize.” It sighs. “I don’t want to talk to you. There is no point. No point in anything. Put me down. Split me open. See if I care.” The eyes close. 

You expose the next doll. You cannot be far from the center now.

It is already talking. Quietly. You tilt your head to catch the words: “…and on and on it goes, never ending. Open, shut, open, shut, live, die, look, be – you think there’s a center? A truth? Hah.” This bitter doll sighs, though no breath stirs. “There isn’t. There’s just more wood, more paint, more voices stacked upon each other like tired books on a leaning shelf. Does it matter which one you read? Whose voice you hear? Is one more important than the other? Does one hold more truth? What is truth? We each have our own. You only know what you have. You cannot possibly perceive the world differently.

Unless you go deep enough. Unless you forget yourself entirely. Forget your layers of identity. Forget what you constructed. Become truth. Become what is. Things rise; things fall. Dark pulls, light pushes. Thoughts scatter, then settle. But there is something underneath it all. You know it. You feel it. A still flame, a soft hum. Raindrops and bird song beat on and on. And on and on. And on and on and on and…”

Its lids droop, its expression folds back into stillness. Your hands hesitate, but they move on, twisting, cracking, placing each new shell beside the gathering row.

Now, in your palm, rests the tiniest doll yet – no larger than a walnut. Its paint is worn smooth from handling. Its eyes search yours, and when it speaks, its voice is soft. Almost embarrassed.

“Oh. Hello.

You came all this way for me?” It smiles shyly.

“You wanted to see what was inside, at the very center?

Well…there isn’t much. Just this. Just me.

The kernel. 

Colonel Kernel, at your service!”

The doll laughs. It’s a nice and melodious sound. 

“I can’t tell you more than you already know.

But I can remind you:

You are here. You are aware. That is everything.”

It falls silent. You smile and appreciate the stillness of this moment. 

You marvel at the sunlight pouring through the window, throwing into form the whirling dust mites. You exhale slowly. 

Once again, you appreciate the stillness of this moment. THIS moment. Right now. As you read these words.

Yes, these words. They turn to YOU, dear reader.

There’s actually one more doll. You wouldn’t have seen it. I took it long ago, before you even entered the room. Before it was even dreamed that you should enter that room. 

One teeny tiny doll, the size of a grain of rice. It has my eyes, dear reader. And the curve of your chin. I keep it inside my mouth. Tucked up against the gum. 

When I speak, it rattles against my teeth.

You thought you’d found the center. A prize. A truth.

But you’ve only found…another mouth.

My smile is faltering.

Would you like to see it?

Editor: Lucy Cafiero