Then one winter, a rumor spread that someone had found where the program originated — a derelict data center in the north, its servers humming like distant bees. A journalist with too much curiosity and not enough caution tracked it down and published a piece that treated the program as a phenomenon to be monetized. Investors, technologists, companies with shining logos reached for it and wrapped it in paperwork. The more it was observed, the thinner it became. The rooms began to leak detail; returned objects arrived with small errors — a missed stitch in the fabric, a wrong date. It resented being watched.
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As days passed, the little intrusions escalated. His smart bulb blinked in Morse that only he would read — their old inside joke about the summer in Tucson. A playlist he hadn't touched queued a song that used to be his sister's ringtone. His calendar populated with events he never scheduled: "Bring the box" at 3 a.m., "Deliver to crate" on a Wednesday. He chalked up coincidences and paranoia, until one night the floor beneath his desk emitted a soft, mechanical ticking, like clockwork assembling itself. Then one winter, a rumor spread that someone