“Oh,” said the Narrator. “Oh. Well.”

The Repairman’s remark had thrown him off-balance; he hadn’t expected something so cutting from the mouth of an strange, misshapen inkblot. That… that hurt. 

“Well, you’re doing an uninspired job of fixing the fourth wall, yourself. Don’t you realize that’s a hopeless task? Nowadays, breaking the fourth wall is all the rage. Don’t fool yourself, inkblot, or you’ll be taping together an imaginary wall for the rest of your life. Most people would find that job… soul-crushing.”

The Repairman felt a twinge of guilt as the narrator reacted. He had expected to make a point, but this voice seemed to take it personally. Maybe he should apolo-

“IMAGINARY?!”

The Repairman reddened somewhat. All thoughts of guilt escaped him, as did any more thoughts about being careful.

“Listen, you…” he fumed, knocking on the Wall, “This wall is no more imaginary than you are! I should know; I’ve been fixing it for over eighty years!”

He breathed heavily, realizing he was just adding more to his workflow.

“Besides,” he said, more quietly, “I was made for this. I could probably do this for another eighty years.”

He somewhat regretted that last statement, but it was true. It was what he was drawn to do, after all.

He silently turned back to his toolbox, digging for some planks and nails.