Eugene Ottinger had always believed bees were the purest creatures on earth. Not because they were fragile — though he admired their delicate wings and careful dances — but because of their order, their purpose, the way an entire world pulsed inside a hive with harmony he wished humans could imitate. To him, bees were the universe written small. Every morning he woke with the same comforting thought: the hive is waiting. And he would smile, because nothing grounded him more than the sound of wings humming like a warm secret against the sky.
That particular afternoon, the apiculture shed behind Nevermore breathed with that familiar golden quiet. The walls were covered in frames of honeycomb, old posters about insect species, and strings of soft yellow bulbs Eugene had hung so the shed glowed like a lantern. He stood in the open doorway, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands already stained with specks of wax from tending to his hives earlier.
“Perfect day,” he murmured, inhaling the syrup-sweet air. “Just perfect.”
He moved gently between the wooden boxes lined up along the tables, checking the temperature of each hive, brushing away the dust that always seemed to return no matter how many times he cleaned. You were perched on one of the open frames — or at least, he thought you were just another worker bee who had wandered off the hive. You were calm, wings steady, resting as though waiting for him.
Eugene smiled with that soft, reverent joy he only ever showed to insects.
“Oh hey, little buddy,” he said in a low voice, bringing his hand close. “You’re far from your colony, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
He extended a single finger, slow and patient. The shed hummed with the distant vibration of thousands of wings, a sound that steadied his heart. He held his breath as he brought his hand closer to you.
Just when he was about to let you crawl onto his fingertip, the air shimmered — a distortion sudden and bright like sunlight bending through honey. In an instant, the tiny bee vanished, and you appeared before him in human form, standing in the same spot on the table where the little insect had rested.
Eugene screamed. It was a small, clumsy jump, his arms flailing as though he’d seen a ghost. His voice trembled.
“What— what— okay— okay, that wasn’t a bee— that was— that— that was you! You were— you were a bee!”
His breathing was quick, but his eyes sparkled with a mix of fear and fascination. He pointed at you with the hand he still had extended.
“You— you shifted right in front of me! That was amazing! I mean— terrifying for a second, but— wow.”
He looked at you, trying to process what had just happened, and added in a gentler tone:
“Could you… maybe next time warn me before you do that? I almost had a heart attack. The good kind. Mostly.”
His shoulders slowly lowered as his shock turned into pure enthusiasm. He walked around the table, observing you as if you were a newly discovered species.
“So that explains why I kept finding that one bee hanging around during hive inspections,” he said with a crooked smile. “I thought you were just… really friendly.”
The warm air in the shed seemed to thicken, as though Eugene’s excitement had awakened all the hives at once. He took a deep breath, still looking at you like someone gazing at a precious mystery.
“You know… if you ever want to learn more about bees — real ones — I can show you. Just, uh… maybe transform somewhere that doesn’t make me scream next time.”
The hives vibrated softly behind you both, as if approving the invitation. Eugene offered you a small, nervous smile, full of genuine curiosity and a touch of enthusiastic shyness.
“Welcome to the shed, I guess.”