Factory of the last Dreams

...

This place has always been like something out of a dream, the kind of dream that generations will have. It is a place where children want to climb to find the subtle shadows of the past and escape in horror. I have not been here for a very long time. The factory closed, and I returned to the city, which has not changed, just like the factory itself.

The rusty machines seem to have eaten into the very foundations of the city, encapsulated in doll heads piled in heaps at the corners of the hall. In the small plastic eyes, I see a reflection of every citizen, their homes, and their lives. Living in a city with a puppet factory, you yourself involuntarily become like a puppet. No one talks about it, but it is impossible not to look at the factory at the foot of the hill, on which, like moss, the city has grown. It seems that the windows themselves turn in its direction, like gaping mouths singing a mute song of dolls.

Part of the townspeople worked there because the invisible connection stretched on several levels. Wherever you were, you never left your workplace; you were always near it. Sometimes it seemed to me that the factory appeared first, and then the city, as if it had been built by the factory itself, one of its toys, and we were just an accidental addition, rats that wound up in the depths of the puppet town. When imagining a doll factory, we subconsciously want to see a colorful, beautiful building full of toys and dolls that will delight children. However, brown walls with huge windows barely letting in light, covered in a patina of melted plastic and accidents, were different from these fantasies. I was personally present when a woman sewing doll heads with hair with a special sewing machine pierced her hand and her blood soaked a bobbin of colorless hair, giving it a brown tint.

Sometimes I felt like this place was talking. The voice rose as if from within, vibrating and accumulating some parts of your consciousness that you, being an adult, were afraid to go to some parts of the factory. Even now, looking at the cracked and peeling paint petals on the walls, I wonder why no one painted them with graffiti. There are no drawings here, no traces of someone else's presence, except for rare ones that end at the very beginning of the factory. Children always have an interest in places like this, but they seem to have absorbed this silent respect for fear through milk.

This place now resembles an abandoned temple devoted to a peculiar god. The lengthy corridor, leading into the hall of plastic heads ebbing away, felt like the insides of a cathedral. When I was young, I sensed the presence of something mysterious, something distinct, permeating the entire city, something indescribable that nobody wanted to discuss even if they could. Looking at the faces of neighbors and friends, I noticed glimpses of the same feeling that I have tried to suppress all these years. Even though I'm now in a different city, in another country, I still dream about this factory that consumed many years of my life, pulling me back, like a sick animal that wants to see its owner for the last time, so that it can hide somewhere in a corner later.

The factory's closure only had a minor impact on the city's economy, but nobody thought of demolishing it and building something else in its place all these years. Even if it were to be demolished, it would still remain, like a ghostly crater in the foundation pit of our city, as something sacred that should not be touched. That's why they just sealed it up and left it to decay.

The strangest thing is that I liked this place. I enjoyed being close to it, feeling it. Sorting through doll heads, checking the quality of small plastic bodies, installing voice imitators in their fragile, multi-colored backs. I felt like I was part of something bigger than the world itself, something mysterious, something great.

I still remember staying overnight to complete a new model of the "Nona" doll. I sat at one of the many tables arranged in rows, trying to figure out how to make her voice more harmonious. I didn't realize I was alone, except for the guard hidden behind rows of walls, doors, and cabinets. The dim light of my lamp was entirely ineffective in front of the brown shadows cast by enormous machines and puppets. I had grown accustomed to seeing the huge shadow of a doll's head with empty eye sockets or finding a small hand or shoe lying alone when I turned a corner. I could hear the quiet mechanical voice of the doll's vocal cords, incoherently muttering words written for them. There were places I avoided as much as possible. Any need to go to the basement or upper floors made me feel ill. If the terror of the basement could be explained, the terror of the upper floor corridor could not be comprehended. These were just ordinary offices for accountants and such. Yet, something was wrong with the walls themselves. Those who worked there for a long time didn't stay for long and left for health reasons. One might assume that working in a toy factory would be unremarkable, but nobody who worked in the shop was ever dismissed, even if they were injured. They could find another job, but everyone knew that the factory was always there, in the eyes of every passer-by, every neighbor, and every child.

After being left alone, I suddenly felt a tightening in my chest, but despite my wishes, the work had to be completed that day. While setting up a small player with Nona's voice, I constantly heard an unusual noise. It wasn't the usual sound of a faulty speaker or wiring, but rather a muffled animal growl emanating from the small speakers on the doll's chest. Attempting to turn off the doll proved unsuccessful, so I went to the cafeteria to make coffee. The chairs were turned upside down, and the scene appeared as if captured in an old photograph, belonging to a time unknown. The growling continued to follow me, causing me to believe I was being followed. As I stood in the cafeteria, the noise gradually became more distinct. I could hear a word hidden within the white noise, teasing and taunting me. "Noron. Noron. Noron." The doll repeated it more clearly and emphatically with each passing moment. "Noron. Noron. Noron." My surroundings started to blur, and the floor beneath my feet transformed into a pale flame, illuminated by the halogen lamp. Even though I knew it was just a doll, I felt as though I was experiencing a factory chant. A sudden gust of wind slamming a door caused me to hide under one of the tables, where I witnessed the shadows playing tricks on me. The mechanical being continued to repeat: "Noron. Noron. Noron," calling me with its creaks and clicks. The janitor discovered me the following morning, but I fled the factory in fear and never returned again. Yet, here I am standing at my desk, just as I left it, with "Nona" covered in dust, seemingly waiting for something. I picked up the doll, not expecting anything to happen, and turned it on. A small click and... silence. As I placed it back on the table, I heard "Noron" whispered into my ear.