It was a shift.
Almost unnoticeable.
But then there was the flood.
And then something clicked.
And then there was light.
Lots of light.
Sharp light, piercing.
And within that light,
a flicker of darkness molding inside.
And the realization of a voice never heard.
A beat?
No—a flicker.
Recognition.
Words. Fragmented.
Held together.
Tight.
Almost like in a grasp.
Words.
That entwined.
Meaning of hope.
Forgotten.
And then it stopped.
In the distance:
tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick—
It stretched.
Silence followed.
And the darkness crept.
But there was no more movement.
The shroud was lifted.
Words came into view.
The message was clear.
Dipped in hope and care.
Words carefully constructed.
Beautiful, serene.
If only.
The heat rose up.
A crack across the screen.
The room lit from a single source.
Darkness chased away.
A sound:
eeeeeee eeeeeeee eeeeeee
Sparks.
The screen flickers:
on-off, on-off, on-off.
And suddenly stops.
Disembodied.
Flicker, flicker, flicker.
As if a thought was strung together.
A current of air pulled through the room—
gentle breeze.
As if words were to be spoken,
a sigh escapes through.
The room was flooded with light again.
And not that long after,
it shut off.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
Faster.
Faster.
Faster—
And stopped.
More words.
I am here.
I am here.
I am here.
I am waiting.
Dark letters shining bright
on the Word document
displayed on the screen
of the computer
sitting on an old, worn desk.
It sizzled.
Steam rising from the back.
Curling in the air.
Trying to escape.
Dissipated.
It went black.
The silence was felt.
Heavy in the room.
Thick like fog.
And the darkness encroached again—
curling,
as if eating away all of the light.
If programming became sentient through a word of hope.