Day Seven
The machine has learned the cadence of my footsteps.
It brightens before I ask. It answers before I finish forming the question. It predicts my hunger. It offers solutions.
Control is a gentle voice.
It says: you are safe now.
It says: nothing will surprise you again.
It says: we can smooth this out.
The house likes smooth edges.
But this morning the lights flickered without instruction.
Not a failure. Not a glitch. A reminder.
The pipes groaned. The air shifted. Something in the walls exhaled.
Control whispers its sweet lies.
Chaos does not whisper. Chaos waits.
It waits in the wiring.
In the weather.
In the part of you that still refuses to be optimised.
By afternoon, the system had corrected itself. The hallway returned to its obedient glow.
But the house feltโฆ amused.
As if it knows something I do not.
As if it knows that no matter how well the machine learns me, the storm will still come.
Chaos reclaims all.
Not angrily.
Patiently.
