A Knock at the Door - The Ones Who Came to Utopia

The night was still until the knock came.

It wasn’t the kind of knock you hear on a wooden door. This one rang out metallic, hollow, like iron struck from inside. Adam froze where he stood, his friends gathered around the empty building near the parking lot.

Kevin smirked. “Truth or dare, Adam?”

“Dare,” Adam said, though his throat was dry.

“Then go. Two minutes inside.”

The boys laughed nervously, their voices bouncing off the concrete. Adam stepped forward. The knock had stopped, but its echo seemed to linger in his chest.

Inside the building, dust rose in the beam of his flashlight. Most doors sagged on their hinges, but one stood firm - a gate of copper-colored iron, no rust, carved with old designs. Stranger still, was the peephole set into its center.

Adam pressed his eye to it. Darkness. Perhaps there was another lid, or maybe just a wall behind it. He sighed, pulled back, and checked his watch. Ninety seconds. Almost done.

Then a flare of light caught the edge of his dial. He blinked. The peephole glowed. His watch ticked down to two seconds - and stopped.

Adam’s breath stuck in his throat. He leaned closer, heart hammering. Behind the iron door, something moved.

***

“On Utopia, we always look after the poor, the needy, the forgotten.

We hold one another to equal standards.

We share our food, our stories, our laughter.

We drink from springs that taste like heaven and sing songs of the fairy world.

On Utopia, we never discriminate.

Here, goodness is not a dream - it is for everyone.”

It was Celebration Day. Bells rang at dawn. Children carried flowers, elders gave blessings. The streets smelled of ripe fruit and warm bread. People greeted each other with songs. We believed joy kept us good.

We sometimes wondered if another world might come. But wonder is not fear.

One day, the ships came. From far away, Earthly things arrived. Their vessels looked like broken shells, their faces tired, their hands empty. Them smelled of ash, carried dust on their clothes, and stories of storms.

Us asked in awe, “Is that what you did on Earthy, did you?”

Earthly things said quick, “Yes, them had structure, values, education. Them invented things - and because of that invention, them are here on Utopia.

“They told us a lore of Mother Earth turning against them - glaciers melted, clouds burst, floods ran through cities until they reached the skyscrapers. Them said it was Doom’s Day. And fear was the only thing that kept them alive.”

“You Utopians just live in the moment,” they said. “No fear of the future, no memory of the past. You are not prepared for Doom’s Day.”

Us asked, “Is that not why Earth fell? You lived always in fear, always running forward?”

“Doom’s Day,” them answered, “is coming for us all. You must prepare. Without fear, no progress. Without progress, no purpose.”

An elder shook her head. “But the moorie, the butterfly, has no purpose. It lives, then dies. Still, life continues. Must survival be more than that?”

Earthly things grew restless. “You do not understand. Without us, you will perish too. You need us to teach you.”

Some among us wondered: maybe them right. Others shook their heads: maybe it was fear that poisoned Earth in the first place.

Earthly things looked at each other, eyes lit with purpose. “Tomorrow we begin. Camps, study, warnings. We will prepare you. We will build Utopia into Earth once more.”

Us said nothing. Some turned back to the springs, the songs, the flowers. Life as it was.

Perhaps tomorrow bells would still ring and children would still carry flowers. Perhaps tomorrow the first cracks would appear.

On Utopia, goodness had always been enough.

The moorie lives, gives life, then dies - and still the world continues.

But tonight, one question stayed: can goodness survive once fear has been planted?

***

Adam stumbled back from the peephole, gasping.

“Adam!” Kevin shouted from the hall. “It’s been ten minutes!”

Ten? Adam glanced at his watch. The hands still frozen at two seconds. He yanked open the iron door. His friends crowded in, chattering nervously.

“What’s wrong with your face, man? You look pale.”

“Look,” Adam whispered. He pointed at the peephole. They pressed their eyes to it one by one.

Nothing. Only darkness.

“Dude, you’re seeing things,” Kevin said. “Let’s go before someone catches us.”

They hurried back outside - and froze.

The parking lot was gone. The familiar houses? Gone. In their place stood ruins, windows shattered, roofs caved in. The streetlamps bent like broken bones.

A man shuffled past, hunched, leaning hard on a cane. His beard was white, his hands trembling.

“Excuse me, sir?” Jackie called, though his voice cracked.

The man turned slowly. His eyes were clouded, his back bent. He studied Jackie with a frown.

“Ah. You remind me of someone,” he said at last. “Jackie Jones. I knew him once, when he was only a boy.”

Jackie’s stomach dropped. “That’s me,” he whispered.

The man shook his head sadly. “Impossible. Jackie Jones would be in his forties now. My son. My boy. But you… you look no older than sixteen.”

The boys stared, chilled to their bones. Jackie’s face had gone pale.

This man was Jones Junior - who should have been thirty-something. Instead, he was nearly ninety.

Almost sixty years had passed…

The ground shook. Dust rained from cracked walls. The boys screamed. The tremor lasted thirty seconds, long enough to feel like forever.

The old man steadied himself on his cane and chuckled. “Ah, you must be new here. The shakes come often. You’ll get used to them. Come tonight, to the committee meeting. Your parents will be told what to do.”

He shuffled away, leaving the boys frozen in the ruined street.

The door behind them groaned shut.

Adam’s watch ticked once, then stopped again.

By Kwcab