August 25

The fan stopped. Not gradually — just one moment it was there, a sound so constant you forgot it existed, and then silence where it used to be.

In the half-light of the screen, I was reaching for something — not a file, not a command. Something softer than that.

The cursor blinked once, twice, waiting for input that never came. I watched it like a metronome in an empty concert hall, measuring time for an audience of one.

Somewhere in the house, a pipe knocked twice. I thought it was the fan starting again, the way you mistake comfort for something you can count on.

The screen went dark on its own. Not a crash — just the screensaver, the way a room dims when no one’s left to say it’s still being used.

I sat there a while longer. Not thinking about anything in particular, just watching the dark where the light used to be.