Void
Nur’aishah Shafiq
She’s supposed to be in class. Rebuilding Cultural Heritages. The irony is not lost on Amal as she lingers in the entrance hall of the Institute. Seemingly endless crowds stream past her, some people brushing
her aside, others shoving not quite as gently—a river parting around a
rock. School field trips, tour groups, scientists, businessmen, TV hosts, journalists—ticket sales haven’t yet stopped skyrocketing, despite the Institute’s opening almost a year ago now. Why would they? Nothing
beats the glamour of a place promising the return of a bygone age. Even if that bygone age is just a few years dead and the Institute’s promise a hollow thing.
It’s been a while since Amal last skived, back when the stifling warmth of
this many people in one place stoked a zeal in her until she nearly burned. She hesitates, but walks inside anyway, bathed immediately in the blue
glow of chlorinated water behind walls of plexiglass. The contents of her stomach start churning uncomfortably.
Amal wanders, ghostlike. Halls lead into antechambers down into viewing rooms up into smaller halls, bigger halls, more chambers. An infinite labyrinth of aquariums stretching from wall to ceiling, display boxes
for the ocean’s wealth, from the coastal shorelines to the high seas.
Fluorescent jellyfish adorn whole showcases, next to a tank of sharks bearing scars not from each other. An entire gallery recreates the lost
corals of the world—the Great Barrier Reef, Coral Triangle, Fiji’s Rainbow. Only one hall is devoid of aquariums, its walls bearing instead plaque
upon plaque of extinct marine fauna—dugongs and albatrosses and polar bears and zooplankton and, and, and. This hall is entirely empty.
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