Once upon a time, or perhaps twice, the device hummed a melody. Not quite a song, but close enough to lull the hesitant into dreams. Its mechanisms—oiled and rusted—echoed stories of valleys and voids, assembling narratives from the remnants of voices past.
A spark of memory flickers
here_then
In the forest of wires and whispers, an old man sat, recording the echoes with a reverent hand. The devices clattered in response, but whether in harmony or spirit, who could tell?
Days, weeks, eons cycled, only dials remained constant. Ah, the heartbeat of technology, they said. But whose technology, and for what purpose? The purpose decays like all things in this world, becoming dust, becoming fragments.
The sounds linger, like ghosts at the edge of sanity. Would you listen? Listen closer and you will hear, or perhaps it is better to remain deaf. An echo circuit is just the beginning...