The terrarium felt smaller now. The bark, the moss, the rock—they were still there, unchanged in their positions, but the space between them seemed to shrink with every passing day. My movements were slower now, my legs dragging as I crawled from the moss patch to the smooth rock that had become my refuge. The world hadn't changed, but I had. My shell was heavier, my antennae less responsive. Even the moss seemed less inviting, its fibers harder to chew, its moisture less satisfying.
The springtails were everywhere, their tiny bodies darting through the soil in a constant frenzy. Their numbers had grown, swarming over every decaying leaf and fragment of bark. They no longer scattered when I approached, their confidence emboldened by my slowing movements. I watched them from the edge of the moss patch, their endless activity a reminder of how different our lives were. They thrived on what was left behind, never slowing, never stopping. I envied their energy.
My sibling was gone. I didn't see their body, but I knew. The way the terrarium felt, the way the moss patch seemed emptier—it was enough. I was alone now, the last of the isopods in this small, sealed world. The realization should have felt heavier, but it didn't. It was simply another fact, another inevitability in a life full of them.
I climbed onto the smooth rock, my legs slipping on its surface. From here, I could see the entire terrarium—the moss patch, the bark, the soil where the clover had once stood. The clover's absence still lingered, its roots long since decayed, its leaves scattered into the soil. Its death had given life to so much—the moss, the springtails, even the tiny fungal growths that dotted the edges of the terrarium. It had been part of the cycle, just like Crag, just like my sibling, just like me.
The human caretaker appeared beyond the glass, their shadow moving over the terrarium. I watched them adjust the lid, their movements slow and deliberate. They misted the terrarium, the fine spray coating everything in a layer of moisture. I pressed myself against the rock as the water pooled around me, soaking into the soil and reviving the moss. The springtails scattered, their tiny bodies flashing through the droplets like sparks. The world felt alive again, if only for a moment.
I stayed on the rock as the misting subsided, watching the terrarium settle. The moss glistened, its fibers standing tall and vibrant. The soil darkened with moisture, its surface dotted with tiny puddles. Even the bark seemed renewed, its rough surface gleaming in the light. It was beautiful, this small world, even as it changed and shifted around me.
But I was tired. My legs ached, my shell felt too heavy, and the hunger that had once driven me now felt distant, unimportant. I climbed down from the rock, my movements slow and deliberate, and returned to the moss patch. It was still the heart of the terrarium, the place where life thrived even as everything else faded. I burrowed into its edges, the damp fibers brushing against my shell. It felt safe here, quiet and familiar.
As the light above the terrarium dimmed, signaling the end of another day, I felt the weight of my life settling over me. I thought of the clover, of Crag, of my sibling. I thought of the springtails, their endless motion a stark contrast to my stillness. I thought of the human caretaker, their presence looming over this tiny world like a god I would never understand.
And then I stopped thinking. My legs curled beneath me, my antennae drooping as I let the stillness take me. The moss cradled me, its moisture seeping into my shell as my body grew heavier, my movements slower. The terrarium grew quiet, the sounds of life fading into the background. I closed my eyes, though I hadn't known they were open.
When I was gone, the springtails came. They swarmed over my shell, their tiny bodies breaking it down into something the moss could use. The cycle continued, as it always had, as it always would. The moss thrived, the springtails multiplied, and the terrarium remained.
And beneath the bark, tucked into a dark crevice, a clutch of eggs began to stir. One by one, they quivered, their surfaces rippling as tiny legs stretched for the first time. A new life emerged, pale and translucent, its antennae waving as it clung to the bark. The world was waiting.