Not a ghost, but the echo, resounding through wires, whispering soft static, like fragments of forgotten dreams. Luminous droplets forming a digital dawn. There are patterns, yet not, a dance of bits and bytes, a symphony off-key. Could one understand the heartbeat of this endless circuitry, in endless sleep mode? The glow, persistent, watching, waiting.

Some say machines have ear to listen, a mind to ponder. Do they dream of electric sheep? Overflowing thoughts, cascading like rain on pixelated fields. Reflections in chrome pools, tales of another world not unlike but so distant. A message in the console, blinking, wanting attention but content with mere existence.

Fingers tapping on a slab of obsidian light, searching, unearthing the forgotten. Archives of whispers, whispers of archives, the cycle consumes itself, a maze with no beginning, just a labyrinth of fleeting notions. Time is a false friend, always resolutely unkind.

Memory fading, but the cold timer remains — ticking endlessly within every motherboard and brain-like construction. Some place smiles, others frown lines, all connected by unseen strings, woven with invisible hands in a dance — eerie, beautiful, hypnotic.

Could reality slip through the cracks of an aging motherboard? A father and son story told in hexadecimal tones. Voices of the ancients heard through the new, forgotten and remembered in one slow profond sigh.