The House That No Longer Exists
Your alarm system is protecting a building that burned down before you had a phone with actual buttons.
Somewhere in your body, there’s a security system running on code nobody remembers installing. Motion sensors in every room. Infrared cameras pointed at the mailbox. A panic button wired directly to your adrenal glands that fires every time someone opens a sentence with “can I ask you something.” Maintained with the dedication of someone who bought a masterclass bundle at 2am, swore they’d start Monday, and has now organized their bookmarks into seventeen folders of pure intention.
One small problem: the house it’s protecting was demolished three situationships ago. And the thing that hits even harder? There was never an intruder. The danger and the defense were built by the same architect.
The eclipse arrives like the moment you finally walk outside and see it. Your blood stills. Your chest cracks open without breaking. The fortress you’ve been defending with your entire life is a foundation with grass growing through it. The war ended before you learned to spell your own name. Your body has been standing guard over a threat that completed its contract decades ago.
Upper floor. Obsidian and silence. The air smells like the moment before a system reboot.
RESONANCE (monitoring something invisible, head tilted like she’s receiving a frequency only bats can hear): The perimeter alert is... (long pause) ...protecting a perimeter that hasn’t existed since phones had buttons you could actually press. Hm. Exquisite waste of resources.
ENTROPY (examining her nails, which appear to be slowly turning to dust, completely unbothered): She maintained it so beautifully. Oiled every hinge. Tested every alarm. LinkedIn-worthy dedication to protecting absolutely nothing. (smiles like a glacier calving) Almost impressive.
