For three glorious weeks, Chicago united behind its greatest civic symbol since stitched hot dogs: a startlingly rat-shaped hole in a sidewalk that gave everyone permission to speak in hushed tones about infrastructure.

Then scientists stepped in with microscopes, clipboards, and the charisma of a damp spreadsheet to announce the hole was not made by a rat, but by gravity, weather, and Chicago’s long tradition of surfaces losing arguments with time.

The city wailed in unison, as candles were removed from the vigil and repurposed for a pizza night previously scheduled to honor a pothole that looks like Abraham Lincoln wearing a scarf.

Officials immediately formed a 17-member task force to investigate the hole’s origins and, crucially, to phrase their disappointment in a way that would not lower property values or the resale price of commemorative hoodies.

Researchers described their methods using a laser scanner, a bag of plaster, and that sniffing thing people do when they want to seem like geologists. One local enthusiast arrived carrying a forensic sidewalk analysis kit like it was a newborn, and left cradling a citation for obstructing an active mystery.

The economic fallout was swift. Street vendors had to pivot from Rat Hole small plates to Rat Hole adjacent tapas, and a craftsperson was seen rebranding a rat-shaped concrete stamp into a limited-edition Illinois outline that just happens to have ears.

Conspiracy theories bloomed like basil in a windowsill. Some say pigeons did it to frame rats, others blame tax policy, while a coalition of squirrels released a statement reading, We categorically deny art, yet would not mind an installation at the Cultural Center.

At a press conference, the mayor presented a deck titled Hole vs Whole, explaining that while the hole is not biologically ratty, it remains spiritually, economically, and influencerially rodent-adjacent. A supportive alderperson added charts proving the hole had a better approval rating than winter.

In a trench coat full of lanyards, a visiting archaeologist declared the feature a classic example of Late Capitalist Pareidolia, then rode away on two volunteers clacking coconuts, loudly announcing their grant application to study shadows shaped like raccoons.

The scientists were careful, earnest, and unbearably Midwestern about it. They insisted the rat silhouette was a coincidence, shared ten diagrams, then admitted reality had not read their captions and would not sit still for the figure legend.

Meanwhile, the city monetized the absence. There is now a tour of things that aren’t rats, a museum wing dedicated to shapes that made us feel something, and a parking ticket for standing still within a euphoric radius of a contour.

In the end, the culprit was revealed to be erosion, salt, and a thousand footsteps that collectively sculpted a tiny Midwestern Sistine Chapel where the Creator reaches for a rat and misses. Chicago nodded, wiped a tear with a transit card, and asked if anyone else could feel the hole looking back, judging our need to assign meaning to concrete. Scientists replied yes, but we call that Tuesday, and the hole, for the record, declined to comment because it is busy being a hole.