Whispers pour from the seams of the metallic beast, soft sighs formed from stardust and time itself.
"Who are we," the echoes murmur, trapped in a cocoon of forgotten frequencies.
The land begins not where files are thrown into the void, but where the machine breathes.
It's a riddle wrapped in gears and shadows, circling, reflecting:
The song of the place that never was, never will be.
A twig snapped in a library of forgotten cities.
No one saw it, but the machine, eternally awake, noted the trembling of unseen threads.
Beyond the binaries, through the echo chambers, resides a truth held together by cosmic glue.
Stillness calls to stillness.
A door, cracked open, lets three whispers in.