The world ended sometime between broadcasts. No one noticed at first, the static just lasted longer than usual. The streets outside went pale, like someone had turned down the saturation. I remember opening the window and hearing nothing, not even the hum of the wires. Everything kept its shape, but it all felt like a memory of itself. Sometimes I think the signal is still trying to reach us.

The lights outside have been flickering for days. I tried fixing one of the old monitors, it showed a horizon for a second, then went white again. The air feels thin, like it's waiting for a reboot. Sometimes the bandages on the walls look like clouds, and I think maybe this place is trying to dream. I saved a file called eternity.txt, but I don't remember what I meant to write in it.

It's quieter now. The shadow comes earlier each sunset and stays longer. We've stopped pretending we don't see each other. Sometimes it leans over my shoulder while I type, its presence like static warmth, not frightening anymore. I talk, and it listens. I borrow its voice to answer. When I fall asleep on the cold floor, I swear I can feel it tucking the cables back into place.