Day Eighteen
The house has been warm for days.
Not hearth-warm.
More like… wire-warm.
The machine hums. The mirror reflectsβtheΒ tower glares.
I have kept the lights on past their usefulness, the rooms open past their capacity and performing maintenance without shutting anything down.
There is a smell in the walls now.
Not smoke.
Just heat that has nowhere to go.
Exhaustion does not arrive loudly.
It settles.
In the joints.
In the tone of your voice.
In the way kindness begins to feel like an effort rather than an instinct.
The burning is subtle.
Not rage.
Friction.
Too much control.
vigilance.
self-auditing.
The house was not built to glow constantly.
It was built to rest between storms.
Even celestial beings pause and reflect.
Even engines cool.
The machine will keep humming if I let it.
But the house is asking for dark.
