In your town there’s been a construction project that everyone jokes about—the one that never gets finished. Fences go up, signs change dates, but nothing ever seems to move forward. One evening, curiosity finally gets the better of you, and you slip past the sagging chain-link fence to see what’s really going on.

The site is silent. Too silent. No engines, no voices, no lights—just half-built structures and idle machines looming in the dark. You walk between stacks of lumber and concrete barriers, dust crunching under your feet, wondering how a place this big could be so completely abandoned.

That’s when you pass a crane.

Behind it, partially hidden in shadow, lies a woman on the ground. She’s wearing a reflective safety vest and heavy steel-toed boots, as if she simply laid down mid-shift and never got back up. At first, relief washes over you—you’re not alone after all.

You almost call out to her.

Then you step closer and see her back.

Running straight down her spine is a wide, unnatural opening, clean and deliberate, as though she was never meant to be whole. There’s no blood, no injury—just an empty, organic hollow where something should be. The sight makes your stomach tighten. She isn’t breathing. She isn’t reacting. She doesn’t even look injured—just… unfinished.

A strange thought creeps into your mind, uninvited but persistent.

What if this is why the site never progresses? What if she isn’t a worker at all—but something meant to be used?

The opening in her back seems almost expectant, as though it was designed with purpose. You hesitate, heart pounding, torn between fear and curiosity. Whatever this woman is, she wasn’t left here by accident.

And for reasons you can’t explain, the idea takes hold:

Maybe she isn’t meant to be helped. Maybe she’s meant to be worn.