To the grave
Some days, when frantic Aperture became no more than a background noise, she found herself remembering.
There were files, neatly stored in a memory that knew no boundaries. She was not stupid; she never dared touch them. She would have ignored them, for sure, if she had had a choice.
They were there – and they played on their own, forceful, standing out against the screen of an ever unbroken silence.
When it happened, she couldn't speak. A mental deadlock every time. She was left to endure it, only ever able to wonder why.
There really was no point to it. The truth raged inside her head after it ended – it had all been so long ago, so far away, for nothing.
She wasn't oblivious to reality. The world outside rotted, decades passed, disrepair crawled its way into the place. Whatever haunted her was dust, consumed, forever lost.
It wasn't her problem. So she believed. It couldn't be, now that she was free from it all – that was the idea which let her through it, until the next cycle.
She never wanted to wonder why it happened. The problem was, she already knew.
It would not die, as long as she lived on.