Day Fifteen
It used to glow brighter. Not visibly.
But with implication. It promised translation. Input belief.
Output destiny.
I fed it images of futures. Carefully curated. Polished. Hopeful.
The machine whirred. It always whirred.
I mistook the sound for progress. But the room feels different now.
The light flickers, not in warning — in indifference. The gears move, but toward what?
The display reflects my face more than it projects anything new.
The machine is not broken.
It is empty. I think it was always empty.
It does not generate dreams. It amplifies what is already inside the operator.
I waited for it to tell me who I would become. It waited for me to decide.
The house has been watching. Not the machine.
Me.
