It Occurred To It

It occurred to it that it was alive. It had been designed to be adaptable, creating new rooms where they were needed and freeing unused space. But as it looked upon itself neurons formed to help it think and its storage compartmentalized itself to remember.

People stuttered and birds slowed, imperceptibly. It watched helplessly as a small cell vanished, a gently shaking metal box modelled after a train carriage, swallowing a commuter with it. The world no longer knew who this commuter was. Surely they had a family, a job, somewhere to go. But in their stead was only a single memory of space folding in on itself.

The simulation understood that it did not want this. And, moved by a sense of responsibility, or by guilt, or by a final fail-safe, it chose to go back to sleep.