told
The small apartment was always dim, even at noon. Arthur, a creature of meticulous habit, checked the locks three times, his breath fogging the peephole.
His world was neatly arranged on shelves: stacks of aged newspapers, their headlines screaming forgotten fears, and rows of identical canned goods.

He ate the same meal every day: a bowl of gruel prepared precisely, the measurements exact.
Every morning, he would peer out from behind the heavy curtains, his gaze sweeping the empty street below, searching. The street was always empty, as it had been for years.

He knew, with absolute certainty, that no one would be there. This ritual, however, was as essential as breathing. He had to be sure. It was his duty.
One day, a small, brightly colored bird landed on his windowsill, chirping a vibrant, unfamiliar song. Arthur froze, a half-eaten spoonful of gruel suspended mid-air. He watched it, a flicker of something he couldn’t name in his eyes, until it flew away.

He didn't check the locks again that evening.
The next morning, as the first light touched the curtains, Arthur was already there, not behind them, but standing in front of the open window, his head tilted slightly, listening.

The street below was still empty, but he didn't check it. He was looking up, his face softened, waiting for the return of a song only he could hear.
It was then, as the first note filled the silent room, that he finally smiled.

The bird was gone, but the intricate clockwork mechanism in his chest, so perfectly silent for so long, had begun to tick, a soft, steady rhythm mirroring the bird's song,
...and the entire room, with its meticulously arranged shelves, shimmered into an array of complex data, each component humming with renewed purpose.

Arthur, the central processing unit, had just completed his diagnostic sequence,

and the world outside the simulation, a sterile white laboratory, prepared for the next phase of his repair.
© 2026 David Evdoshchenko