The square fish pressed its nose against the bucket and didn’t want to get inside. It wasn’t slippery but rough, as if made of small stones, and its edges tapped quietly against the side of the boat. The fisherman looked at it for a long time, because this was already the second time this week it had happened, but it still didn’t quite fit in his head.
He had always fished here, in this stretch of water where the bank was gnawed by time and cubic waves, and the reeds grew in even steps. The fishing rod was old, with a crooked ring, the line was slightly frayed, but it worked. A common affair. Until these strange creatures began to appear from the water, as if the world forgot to round the corners for a moment.
The fisherman didn’t ask where they came from. He had long ago learned not to ask unnecessary questions. If something is caught, it’s either eaten or traded. He had no other options.
He carefully placed the square fish in the bucket. The water inside quivered slightly but did not spill. The fish looked at him with a black pixel eye and remained silent. Just as silent as the others already lying there, side by side, like neatly stacked blocks.
The market opened closer to evening. The road to it passed a mountain where a tunnel had once collapsed, and now a chill and the smell of old iron wafted from there. The stones underfoot were warm, the day had managed to heat them, but the air already smelled of night. Somewhere far away, redstone clicked, monotonous and slightly irritating.
Creepers always appeared suddenly. It was as if they weren’t there, and then they were already standing between the stalls and rows, carefully bypassing people and not touching anything extra. They were in no hurry and never shouted. The fisherman knew they liked square fish. Not to eat right away, no. They bought it to take home, to store in their dark rooms and watch it slowly move its edges.
The first Creeper stepped closer, tilted its head, and peered into the bucket.
— Are there more, it said quietly.
The fisherman nodded. Words were unnecessary here. He simply took out one fish and placed it on a stone slab. It lay flat, as if it was meant to be that way.
The exchange was simple. For one fish, they gave an emerald or a bit of gunpowder, sometimes a piece of strange glass through which the world seemed broken. The fisherman didn’t ask why he needed this. He put everything into a bag and felt the weight slowly growing.
Nearby, someone was selling apples, even as if carved. Somewhere an anvil clanged. Someone was arguing over a shovel. The market lived its own life, and the square fish didn’t look entirely foreign here. Only a bit strange.
The fisherman remembered times when things were different here. When everything tried to be smooth and round. Back then, it seemed to him that the world slipped past him without catching. But now he felt every corner, every rough edge. It was uncomfortable, but somehow right.
When all the fish were sold, he remained standing by the stall for a little longer. He watched as the Creepers slowly dispersed, pressing their purchases to their chests. One of them stopped and looked back.
— The water is changing, it said and walked on.
The fisherman didn’t know what that meant. He packed his things and headed home. The road seemed longer than in the morning. The stones underfoot had already cooled, and the cold seeped through his soles. The air smelled of wet earth and something metallic.
It was quiet at home. The wooden walls creaked as if the house were breathing. He placed the bag on the table and emptied the contents. Emeralds rolled, stopping near the cracks in the boards. Gunpowder settled in a thin layer. The glass clinked and fell silent.
He sat and looked at it all for a long time. It seemed strange to him that a few hours of fishing could yield so much. But even stranger was that tomorrow he would go to the water again. As if something was pulling him there.
He couldn’t sleep that night. Outside the window, the moonlight fell in even squares on the floor. Somewhere far away, there was an explosion—dull, without fire. He lay there thinking about the water. About how it had become different. About why his hands had grown accustomed to the fishing rod faster than to anything else.
WOW:
At dawn, he was already standing on the shore. The water was calm but not smooth. Every now and then, even circles appeared on the surface, which immediately broke. He cast his line and felt the familiar pull.
This time the fish was heavier. When he pulled it out, he saw that it consisted of several blocks joined together. It moved slowly, as if thinking which way to turn. Its surface was warm to the touch.
The fisherman carefully placed it in the bucket. The water didn’t spill again. He felt a strange sense of calm. As if the world, with all its oddities, allowed him to be part of the process.
On the way to the market, he noticed children by the roadside building something out of blocks. They silently stacked one on top of the other, sometimes breaking them and starting again. Their hands were covered in dust, but their faces were focused. He stopped for a moment and watched. It seemed to him that they knew something he hadn’t yet managed to understand.
At the market, the square fish was met without surprise. The Creepers were already waiting. They watched more intently than yesterday. One touched the fish with a finger and quickly withdrew its hand.
— It’s different, it said.
The fisherman nodded. He felt it too.
The exchange went faster. Today they gave more. But the joy was restrained. As if everyone understood that something was changing and didn’t know if it was for the better.
When he returned home, the sun was already high. The light was harsh, the shadows short. He carried the empty bucket and felt a lightness in his hands. As if a part of him had stayed there, in the water.
Near the house, he noticed a crack in the wall that hadn’t been there before. It ran straight, at a right angle, and looked as if someone had drawn it on purpose. He ran his finger along it and felt the cold.
Inside, he sat on the floor. The emeralds from yesterday’s trade lay where he had left them. But one of them was warm. He picked it up and realized it was glowing faintly.
The fisherman didn’t know what to do with it. He simply put the stone in his pocket. Outside the window, the water clinked. As if someone were throwing small cubes into it.
He stepped onto the threshold and looked at the river. It flowed the same as always, but now he saw more in it. Not just the reflection of the sky, but a hidden structure waiting for someone to cast a line.
It suddenly became clear to him why children, Creepers, and even he himself were drawn here. Not because of the fish. Not because of the market. But because of the feeling that here you could touch the world and change it, even if only a little, even if just by stacking a few blocks and seeing what happens.
He took his fishing rod and approached the water again. The bucket stood nearby, empty. The water moved quietly, as if waiting.
