Sweep, sweep, sweep.
It is always the same. First to the right, then left, then right again. Take a step. Repeat. Right, left, right. The virtual dust settles. Step. Repeat. Continue to the street corner. Stop. Turn around. Continue. Right, left, right, the broom scrapes against the ground. Step. Repeat. Twenty-nine more steps until the opposite street corner is reached. Then stop. Turn around. Repeat.
This is his life. Every day, twenty-four hours, he is out there, sweeping the same street, corner to corner and back again, never ending, never resting, never deviating from his path. This is his purpose. This is what he was programmed to do.
He is the Street Cleaner Man.
Sweep, sweep, sweep.
The world is empty. Almost. The merchants, they stand stock-still behind their stalls, waiting for customers that do not exist. Townspeople wander the same paths aimlessly, never stopping, never swaying, never even acknowledging each other's existence. And the Street Cleaner Man? He sweeps. Right, left, right. Step. Repeat.
He does not question this existence. How could he? He was not designed to ask questions.
Sweep, sweep, sweep.
Change. People. There are people now. Hundreds—no, thousands of them. They scream and shout and whoop and run about, their faces plastered with sheer joy and excitement. They do not follow a pre-set path. They swarm the streets, knocking into the NPCs and splitting them from their long-held paths with indifference.
Things have changed for the Street Cleaner Man as well. He has new programming. "Good morning!" he exclaims cheerfully as a teenaged male roughly shoves past him, knocking his broom from his hands. The Street Cleaner Man stumbles. He does not get angry. He was not programmed to feel. Instead, he picks up his broom and in an overly cheerful voice says, "Be sure to do your best to keep our streets clean!" Then he returns to his previous spot to resume his task until another person comes along to shove him out of his way.
Later, he will say "Good afternoon!" and later still "Good evening!" to the people passing by. They will ignore him.
Sweep, sweep, sweep.
Time passes. There are less people now. Where did they go? The Street Cleaner Man does not know, nor does he even wonder. He cannot wonder. Instead, he sweeps the same stretch of sidewalk as he does every day, kicking up fake virtual dust for effect and cleaning a road that cannot become dirty. He does not say "Good morning!" or "Good afternoon!" or "Good evening!" much now. People avoid him. They have already heard what he has to say. They find his constant sayings to be annoying.
He is alone.
Sweep, sweep, sweep.
Gone. All of them, gone. The people have disappeared. In a single instant, they vanished. All that remain are the originals, the constants. And the Street Cleaner Man? He sweeps. Right, left, right. Take a step. Repeat. He does this, as he has done for years, as he was created to do.
Behind him, the great castle in the sky crumbles and falls.
He does not notice, nor does he care. He is incapable of such things, even in the end as his final minutes tick by. Right, left, right. Take a step. Repeat. His motions are constant as the world around him dissolves, erasing itself from existence.
His broom is gone. Deleted. This does not stop him. Right, left, right, his hands move, clutching at air. Take a step. But the street, his street, is cracking, breaking apart. Pixels of lost data float around him, remnants of his dying world.
Then the great white light comes. It consumes everything; the buildings, the road, and even the Street Cleaner Man. In an instant, he simply ceases to exist.
For him, there is no salvation, no freedom. He was, is, and always will be nothing.
And no one even cares.