As We Have Always Done

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, which immediately suggested it was not meant for me.

Tuesday is not a day on which mysterious things are supposed to happen. Tuesdays are for leftover emails, mild disappointment, and the quiet understanding that nothing dramatic will occur for at least another forty-eight hours. The envelope alone violated this expectation. Thick paper. Cream-colored. No return address. My name was written in ink that suggested someone owned a pen specifically for this purpose.

Inside was a single sheet of cardstock, folded once, as if anything more elaborate would have been excessive.

You are cordially invited to attend.

Your presence is requested at the appointed time and place.

Please do not ask questions.

We look forward to your cooperation, as we have always done.

There was a time and an address printed beneath that. There was no explanation. There was no signature.

I read it twice, which felt like asking questions adjacent to the letter, if not directly of it. The sentence about questions seemed less like a request and more like a warning issued by someone who had tried politeness before and been disappointed by the results.

I considered obvious possibilities. A prank, though I did not have friends with access to this level of stationery. A scam, though it seemed inefficient. A cult, though, cults usually makes more effort to sound appealing.

I folded the letter and placed it on the table, where it sat quietly, as it had always done, which was not long enough to qualify as “always,” but I understood the sentiment.

I almost asked someone about it. I even opened my mouth to do so before realizing I would need to explain why I had an invitation instructing me not to ask questions, which felt like asking questions with extra steps. Instead, I put the kettle on and waited for the water to boil, which it did without explanation, as it had always done.

The address led to a building I had walked past many times without noticing, which I took personally. It was the sort of structure that did not demand attention. No sign. No windows at street level. A door painted a shade of gray that suggested commitment to anonymity.

At exactly the appointed time, the door opened.

“Welcome,” said the person inside. They were smiling in a way that implied this moment had been anticipated for some time. “Please come in.”

I hesitated. “Is this…?”

They raised a hand gently. “No questions, please.”

I nodded, because nodding seemed permissible.

The interior was larger than the exterior had any right to be. A long corridor stretched ahead, lined with doors identical to the one through which I had entered. Every few steps, a small plaque was mounted on the wall. Each bore the same phrase, engraved carefully and polished to a shine.

As we have always done.

“Is that…” I began, before catching myself.

The guide smiled again, clearly relieved. “This way,” they said, gesturing forward. “We will proceed as we have always done.”

I followed, telling myself that whatever this was, it was probably fine. After all, things had been proceeding this way for a long time.

Apparently.

The corridor ended in a set of double doors that were unnecessarily tall, as if designed to impress people who were already inside. My guide stopped before them and smoothed their jacket with the solemnity of someone preparing to be witnessed.

“Before we enter,” they said, “a reminder.”

I waited.

“No questions.”

“Of course,” I said, which felt like the sort of thing one said right before asking several.

The doors opened without being touched. I chose not to think about that.

Beyond them was a chamber arranged in a wide circle. Candles lined the walls, though the room was also equipped with recessed lighting, all of it set to a gentle, flattering glow. Rows of chairs faced inward, every seat occupied except one, which sat slightly apart from the rest. A number of people turned to look at me. None of them seemed surprised to see me there.

At the center of the circle stood a lectern carved with symbols I did not recognize but immediately suspected I was not meant to recognize. Behind it stood an older woman in layered robes, her posture straight enough to suggest long practice.

“Welcome,” she said. “Please take your seat.”

I looked at the empty chair. It faced the lectern at a slight angle, not quite aligned with the others. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, and sat.

The woman inclined her head. “Thank you for joining us,” she said. “We gather today to continue our work, as we have always done.”

A murmur of approval moved through the room. Several people nodded. One person dabbed at their eyes, as if the phrase had particular emotional significance.

“We begin,” the woman continued, “with the acknowledgment.”

Everyone placed their right hand over their heart. I followed half a second late, hoping no one noticed.

“We acknowledge,” the group said in unison, “that questions lead to uncertainty.”

“So noted,” the woman said. “And uncertainty leads to…”

“Instability,” the group replied.

“And instability,” she said, “leads to consequences.”

The word consequences landed heavily, as though it had been capitalized.

The woman turned her attention to me. “You are new.”

“Yes,” I said. Then, because silence stretched just long enough to become noticeable, I added, “I believe.”

Several people smiled at this. A man two seats down leaned toward his neighbor and whispered something that made them both nod.

“You were invited,” the woman said. It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She tapped the lectern once. “Then you are prepared.”

“For?” I asked, and immediately felt the room stiffen.

My guide coughed. Loudly. Someone rang a small bell. The woman raised a hand, not unkindly.

“It is understandable,” she said, “that you would feel curiosity.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to…”

She smiled. “No apology is necessary. We recognize these impulses. We have all experienced them.”

A pause.

“Briefly.”

There was a ripple of restrained laughter. I was not sure if it was meant kindly, but I accepted it anyway.

“As you will learn,” the woman continued, “our work depends on consistency. On adherence. On doing what must be done, as we have always done.”

The phrase echoed softly around the room, spoken under several breaths, like a reassurance.

I looked around. Every face reflected calm conviction. Whatever doubts they might have once had had been filed away, neatly, permanently.

The woman leaned forward slightly. “You may be wondering why you are here.”

I did not trust myself to answer.

“You need not ask,” she said. “We will tell you what is necessary.”

She gestured, and a man stepped forward holding a folder. He opened it, frowned slightly, and then closed it again.

“There appears to be a form,” he said.

“Yes,” said the woman.

“It is incomplete.”

“That is acceptable.”

He hesitated. “Several sections are blank.”

The woman nodded. “They usually are.”

He relaxed visibly and returned to his seat.

I shifted in my chair, which made a soft scraping sound that seemed far too loud. The woman’s gaze returned to me.

“You have a habit,” she said gently.

“I do?”

She smiled again. “You nearly asked three questions already.”

Several heads turned. Interest sharpened. The air felt tighter, as if something had leaned closer.

“That,” she said, “is why you are here.”

I swallowed.

“And why,” she added, “we are very glad you came, as we have always done.”

For the first time since the letter arrived, I had the distinct feeling that “always” was doing a great deal of work.

And that none of it was mine.

They began with demonstrations.

“This is a routine matter,” the woman at the lectern said. “A procedural review, as we have always done.”

Several members stood and moved to different parts of the chamber with the efficiency of people who had practiced not thinking about something for a very long time. A diagram was unfurled. It was elaborate, circular, and densely annotated with arrows that pointed back to themselves.

“This represents our decision process,” the woman said.

I leaned forward despite myself. “It looks like…”

The bell rang.

“...complete,” she finished smoothly. “Yes.”

A man with a clipboard stepped forward. “We will present a scenario.”

He cleared his throat. “A supply shortage has occurred.”

There was a collective intake of breath.

“An unexpected variable?” someone asked, then winced.

The woman nodded gravely. “And how do we respond?”

There was a pause. The air thickened.

Finally, the group spoke together: “As we have always done.”

The man checked a box on his clipboard and smiled with visible relief.

“But what if…” I began, then stopped myself so abruptly my jaw clicked.

The woman’s eyes flicked to me. Not sharply. Not unkindly. Interested.

“You may observe,” she said. “Participation will come later.”

The demonstrations continued.

Each scenario followed the same pattern. A problem was introduced. It was not examined. It was not clarified. The phrase was invoked, and the process advanced.

It was mesmerizing in the way a magic trick is mesmerizing, once you know how it works, but cannot look away anyway.

At one point, a woman raised her hand halfway, as if her body had acted before her training caught up. She froze, fingers trembling.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That was…”

“No harm done,” the lectern woman said. “Please proceed.”

The woman lowered her hand, visibly shaken.

“We all slip,” the lectern woman added gently. “Early on.”

Early on.

I glanced around the circle. Some of these people were old enough that “early” felt like an optimistic assessment.

Eventually, the folder returned.

“We have reached the integration portion,” the man with the clipboard announced.

The woman nodded. “Excellent. Our guest may now assist.”

Every head turned toward me.

My guide gave me an encouraging smile that did nothing to slow my pulse.

“You would like me to…?” I said, and then clamped my mouth shut.

“To respond,” the woman said. “Naturally.”

A placard was placed before me. It contained a single sentence:

PROCEED.

“That’s it?” I asked, before my internal alarms could intervene.

The bell rang twice. Louder this time.

The woman tilted her head. “What would you suggest?”

I hesitated. The room waited. Dozens of eyes watched me with an intensity that suggested they were observing a controlled burn.

“I don’t know,” I said carefully. “I suppose I’d want to understand the situation better.”

A murmur moved through the group. Not disapproval. Not approval. Recognition.

“And how would you do that?” the woman asked.

I swallowed. “I would ask…”

The bell rang again, frantically.

The man with the clipboard dropped it. Someone hissed. Another person stood abruptly, then sat back down.

The woman raised a hand. Silence returned.

She studied me for a long moment. “You see,” she said to the room, “the impulse.”

She turned back to me. “And yet, you stopped yourself.”

“Yes,” I said weakly. “I’m learning.”

She smiled. “Good.”

The placard was taken away. Another replaced it.

This one read:

AS WE HAVE ALWAYS DONE.

“Say it,” the woman instructed.

I hesitated. Then, feeling faintly ridiculous, I said it.

Nothing happened.

A few people exhaled. One wiped sweat from their temple.

“Again,” she said.

I repeated it.

The tension eased further. It was as though the phrase itself had mass, pressing down on something volatile and keeping it contained.

“You see?” the woman said, addressing the room. “It works.”

“But why?” I asked, and immediately closed my eyes.

No bell rang.

Instead, the woman laughed softly.

“Because,” she said, “it allows us to move forward without getting stuck.”

“Stuck where?” I asked.

This time, the bell rang, but it was late. Hesitant.

The woman’s smile thinned.

“In possibility,” she said. “In speculation. In regret.”

She straightened. “We learned long ago that asking questions does not always lead to answers.”

A pause.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “it leads to more questions.”

The room nodded solemnly.

I looked at the placard again. The phrase stared back at me, suddenly heavier.

“And what happens,” I asked carefully, “to the questions you don’t ask?”

The bell rang. Once.

Too late.

The woman did not smile.

“That,” she said, “is an excellent question.”

And for the first time since I arrived, no one knew what to say, as they had always done.

The silence held.

It was not the dramatic kind. No one gasped. No candles flickered ominously. It was simply the absence of the phrase, and in that absence, something unsettled shifted.

The woman at the lectern folded her hands.

“You are not wrong,” she said at last. “To wonder where the questions go.”

Several members looked at one another. One man cleared his throat, then thought better of it.

“We do not destroy them,” she continued. “Nor do we answer them.”

A pause.

“We defer them.”

The word landed carefully, as though it had been rehearsed.

“In the early days,” she said, “we believed silence was sufficient. That if we did not ask, the questions would simply… fade.”

Her gaze drifted, briefly, to the wall behind her. I followed it and noticed something I had not before: the plaques were not identical. The phrase was engraved the same way each time, but the metal beneath it varied. Some were polished smooth. Others were scratched, dented, or warped, as though exposed to pressure.

“That was our first mistake,” she said.

The room had gone very still.

“Questions,” she said, “do not vanish. They accumulate.”

The word settled heavily among us.

“They gather in the spaces we refuse to examine. In decisions made without reflection. In traditions preserved without memory.” She exhaled slowly. “Eventually, they begin to press.”

A murmur rippled through the group, quickly stifled.

“The event that preceded this society,” she said, “was not caused by malice or ignorance. It was caused by curiosity without restraint.”

I waited for the phrase to appear. It did not.

“We survived,” she said. “But only just.”

Her eyes returned to me.

“The phrase you have heard so often was not inherited,” she said quietly. “It was constructed.”

The realization settled in my chest, heavy and unwelcome.

“There was no ‘always,’” she said. “Only aftermath.”

Around the room, hands tightened on armrests. Someone swallowed audibly.

“We say it,” she continued, “because it allows us to move forward without looking back.”

She paused.

“But the questions remain.”

For the first time since I arrived, no one repeated the phrase.

They could not.

The woman regarded me with a curiosity that, until that moment, I had assumed had been trained out of her.

“You have noticed something else,” she said.

I hesitated. Then nodded.

“You did not invite me to learn the phrase,” I said. “You invited me because I don’t trust it.”

A murmur passed through the room, sharper than before.

She inclined her head. “You were not chosen for discipline. You were chosen for friction.”

The word seemed to surprise even her.

“Our methods,” she said, “are effective, but not complete. The pressure must be released, or it will rupture us.”

“And that’s where I come in?” I asked.

She smiled faintly. “Periodically, we require someone who asks before the phrase can intervene. Someone who treats uncertainty as tolerable.”

Several members shifted uncomfortably. One looked relieved.

“We cannot be that person,” she said. “Not anymore.”

I looked down at the placard still resting on the table. The phrase stared back at me, bold and confident, as if it had never failed.

“So I ask,” I said, “and you listen.”

“And then,” she said, “you leave.”

“And forget?”

She considered this. “We would prefer it.”

“I’m not very good at that,” I said.

A few people laughed. Quietly. Gratefully.

The woman gestured toward the circle. “We will proceed,” she said, and stopped herself. Her mouth closed. She exhaled.

“We will… pause.”

The room seemed to relax at the word.

“Ask,” she said.

The invitation was not dramatic. It did not echo. It was simply there.

I took a breath.

“What was the question that broke everything?” I asked.

The bell rang.

Late. Useless.

No one moved.

The woman closed her eyes. Around us, the plaques seemed to hum, not audibly, but insistently, as if the walls themselves were waiting.

“We do not ask that,” someone whispered.

“I am,” I said.

The silence stretched, then thinned.

The woman opened her eyes.

“It was not one question,” she said. “It was many. Asked without pause. Without care. Without the willingness to live with uncertainty.”

She met my gaze. “We replaced them with certainty instead.”

“And that worked?” I asked.

“For a time,” she said.

The pressure shifted. I felt it not physically, but as a loosening, like a held breath finally released.

I stood.

No one stopped me.

At the door, my guide waited, hands folded, expression unreadable.

“Thank you,” they said. “For your cooperation.”

I smiled. “Happy to help.”

They hesitated, then added, “We will continue…”

They stopped.

I opened the door myself.

Outside, the city moved as it always had. Cars passed. Someone laughed. A dog barked.

Behind me, a voice called out, tentative.

“We will continue… differently.”

I did not turn back.

Weeks later, a letter arrived.

Same paper. Same ink.

Thank you for your service.

Your presence is requested again should the need arise.

We will proceed, as we have always done.

I folded the letter carefully.

“You haven’t,” I said aloud.

And, for the first time, I wondered whether that was a problem or the point.