From the world of Sortlo
One block has no arrow. Six short pages, all open; read them in order.
This story is not inside the game; it lives in the game's world: the three worlds, blocks with arrows, containers and the tray are the same.
Every block on the board knew where it was going. Red slid left, yellow slid up; each followed its arrow into a little pot and was gone. Tik stayed. Tik's face was smooth and plain: no arrow, no pot. “Which way?” Tik asked the empty board. A butterfly opened its wings. “Perhaps not a pot.”
The butterfly landed on Tik and tilted its head. “An arrow points at the place that is waiting for you,” it said. “Pots wait for plants. If no place waits, no arrow comes.” “So something is wrong with me?” “No. Your place is elsewhere. Ask the gull; nothing at the harbor goes uncounted.”
A rolling crate gave Tik a ride down the quay. A gull stood on a bollard, counting under its breath. “Fifty-two. Fifty-three.” “Excuse me?” “Counting!” At last: “A hundred and fifty-five containers, none yours. Pots in the greenhouse, containers here, baskets at the cat cafe. You're no steel box. Try baskets.”
Warm, quiet, smelling of toast. Blocks with little cat ears slid into baskets on soft cushions. One basket by the window stood empty, a small tag tied to its handle. Tik hurried over, but a cat got in first and curled up. “Five minutes,” it said, eyes shut. Tik sat down to wait.
Five minutes became an hour. Tik read the tag at last: a small, careful drawing of a square with a smooth, plain face, and one word beneath. Tik. “That's mine,” said Tik. “Mm,” said the cat. “Kept it warm. A basket nobody sits in goes cold.”
“Five minutes,” said the cat at last, and stretched, and stepped out. The basket stood empty. Waiting. A thin white line trembled across Tik's face: an arrow, pointing straight at it. Tik slid in; the cushion was still warm. On the next basket a second tag swung. Blank.
On the next basket hangs a tag with no name on it. Whose is it?
Sortlo