Thread by @kritheavix

The light in your basement is on a timer. It'd be cheaper to just leave it off, but the tiny civilization that's sprung up down there would be without a sun, and what kind of tight-fisted goddess would do that to them, hmm?

In the space of a few months the tiny little critters have buzzed through the iron age and exhausted your toolbox, so you buy some cheap nails and leave them around to find.

You've left a dictionary down there, but suspect you'll need to take a more direct hand with language.

You've got a magnifying glass ready, though. You're dead curious to know if the leaf samples they're trimming and ink they've been siphoning from one of your permanent markers down there is going into an illuminated manuscript; call it vain, but you're hoping to see yourself.

You make sure the leaky pipe they source their water from isn't fixed; you let some of the fibrous weeds they harvest grow through the windows, but you're wary of supplying them directly. One day you store some coloured chalk downstairs and the art world explodes.

Space is limited - they're mindful not to build anywhere near shelves and cupboards you regularly visit - but their farming and structures hold a subtle genius you're fascinated by.

Months pass into a year, and you're still trying to resist the urge to contact them directly.

Their high medieval period moves into a glorious renaissance, and they begin chipping into concrete and stone to hollow out more space and harvest building supplies.

Statuary becomes popular. You spot in pride of place in one of the old keeps your own figure recreated in stone.

The thought occurs that these tiny settlers that so resemble you are advancing at a remarkable rate - relativity favours their incredible development - and the day will come while you still live here that this miniature civilization will be more advanced than out your door.

You never asked to be god, but you are for all intents and purposes the very soul of Olympus stepping down to visit the mortals each time you need the bleach under the sink or stash an extension cable under the wooden stairs. They look to you. You want the best for them.

You find a comfortable wooden chair to take into the basement and stripe the legs with red marker - don't harvest from here! Every couple of days you spend an hour or so sitting down there, reading aloud whatever you have; user manuals. Lord of the Rings. Dune. The newspaper.

The day will arrive that you'll need to communicate, and you haven't a chance of deciphering their written word or parsing their miniscule squeaks as language. For the first time you deliberately stir the pot and make sure they know what you sound like, and hope they learn.

They leash ants and haul wagons of balsa and vine, living in the warm, dry safety of blocks hewn from concrete and overhead you rumble patiently - day in, day out - on topics that slowly dawn on them.

They've usually existed in a staid, literal world. You stir them to imagine.

Through you they begin to learn about the world beyond their four walls and the expanse they've tended for generations. Things that are, have been and never existed mingle for space in their new scope to dream, and you see it reflected in their work, their little buildings.

They explore.

You've never known them beyond the safety of the basement. It'd never occurred to them that there might be a reason to leave. One morning you're about to open the door to the basement when you spot it: an outpost of matchsticks and yarn wound from carpet fibres.

To your knowledge they've never warred with one another; you've never knowingly harmed them. Accidents must have happened at their scale, but... if they're determined to explore, you know they must face danger.

You live upstairs as you always have. No concessions are made.

You continue your little cultural exchanges - You read in the basement quite happily, and if ever there's been losses that you're responsible for they don't press the matter.

They learn your patterns and adjust accordingly; you notice tiny cuts in cereal boxes and the like.

Their age of exploration comes to them discovering real matches. You install a smoke detector, but accept they're likely to fight their own fires, too.

Along comes steam power. Buildings rise. Monuments grow with them. They still adore you. It's been two years.

Insects and pests in your home are non-existent if they're useful in this tiny world, which grows at a pace you can watch almost daily.

Steam engines become rudimentary trains. You leave empty cans downstairs to recycle and 'forget' about them. Iron gives way to stainless steel!

Tracks are laid along the base of your walls around the house, and after making a show of wiping a thin line of sooty grime from the wall they learn to leave scarcely a trace of their passage. Your tiny tenants take to cleanliness as a virtue, helping where they can.

One day you reach for the TV remote and find it's far lighter than expected. The batteries are missing. You head downstairs.

Christmas lights and LEDs have sprung up along streets and avenues etched in the bedrock of your home's foundation.

One morning you're awoken by a droning buzz, and blearily spot a fat black shape bumbling near your nightstand. You swat at it, expecting to shoo it away. Instead the tiny aircraft bursts against your palm with a sputtering spark and a glitter of intricate pieces. Uh-oh.

You gather up the wreckage of the intrepid explorers as best you can and head downstairs. It's time for another first. As carefully as you can you pen a letter on the smallest piece of paper you can find, explaining the mistake and apologizing for the loss incurred.

The next day it's a little white aircraft that comes humming near you with a smart orange streak down its side - they can read, and they've adapted to ensure they're seen.

You buy yourself a new phone, and take your old one and its manual downstairs...

A few weeks pass. Your phone buzzes.

'our ancestors dreamed we would one day speak to you directly'

The message goes on, and communication opens. Technology explodes down at ground level, and you're pretty sure a tiny spike in power consumption means they've spliced in.

They're online. They're reading, learning frantically about your world. They're aghast, astounded, amazed and awed. You're just one of billions? It stuns them.

"But," they conclude to you, "you have meant the world to us. You're not a god, but someone better."

You've kept them safe and provided for them with the patient love of a gardener, but they're capable of so much more than you can make possible for them.

Your emails and messages buzz constantly. You have thousands of admirers, not followers or devotees. It's liberating.

Over the coming months, they progress at a pace you can almost watch in real time. Their space program is wildly ambitious, but their efficiency in every aspect of life serves as a model. Their discoveries work at your scale. You begin posting their findings, then publishing.

You're told eventually that the time has come to leave the basement and explore the world. What they have learned from screens and books is a fraction of what could be experienced. Colony ships, you guess, each the size of a bloated seagull, prepare for launch on your roof.

You know the world would think you're a kook at best if you ever told your story, but you watch the clear trails of those strange little ships disappear through the clouds and your breath catches.

You hadn't asked to be a goddess, but it was nice for a while.

Your phone buzzes. One new message. You thumb the lock screen and peer down.

"If you could continue to watch your step, ma'am? Some of us are happy to call this home."

You leave a whole box of felt tip markers in the basement the following morning.

(Fin.)

I really wasn't sure where this was going when I started, but once it gathered a little steam I knew I had to see it through. Just some stream of thought nonsense!