2024. #9

The relic sat there, humming low, like it had a secret it wasn’t ready to share. Its screen glowed faintly, the kind of glow that worms its way into your brain late at night when the rest of the world is dark and still. Around it, the desk was a graveyard of distractions—crumbled notes, cold coffee, a plastic duck staring with dead, glossy eyes. The air felt thick, charged with the ghosts of old ambitions, the kind that haunt rather than inspire. The relic wasn’t just a machine; it was a trap. A flickering, whirring reminder that once you sit down in its glow, you don’t always come back the same.