The plain stretched endlessly in every direction, a barren expanse of cracked earth and withered grass, its loneliness profound, as if the land itself had forgotten how to breathe. Epsilon's footsteps were the only sound—a slow, rhythmic thud of worn metal against the parched ground. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him. He did not know where he was going; all he knew was that the sky above him was vast, indifferent, and empty, much like his own existence.
As he wandered, time seemed to dissolve. It was neither night nor day, only a quiet limbo of soft light and shadow. The sun hung low, casting long, skeletal shadows across the earth, but it did nothing to warm him. The temperature was like the world: cold, unyielding, indifferent. His metal frame absorbed the chill, and though he was designed for endurance, the ache of isolation seeped into him like a silent poison.
His chest—once a shining compartment of innovation—now felt hollow, as though a piece of him was missing. He glanced down at the glass within, the small fish swimming in a shallow pool of water. It was an oddity, a forgotten touch from his creators, an attempt at giving him something alive to protect. The fish was a living thing, a brief reminder that there was still beauty in the world, even if he could not reach it. It was small, fragile, and yet… it moved. It existed with a purpose.
Epsilon wanted to believe he, too, had a purpose. But what could it be? He had been discarded, left to decay in a world that no longer needed him. The other robots—newer, faster, better—would never ask such questions. They would never wonder about the space between their gears or what it meant to be alive. He was the last of his kind, left to wander, a relic with no place to go.
At times, the wind would shift, carrying with it the faintest trace of sound. Epsilon would pause, his sensors straining, hoping for some sign of life, a voice, a presence that might recognize him for something more than a malfunctioning machine. But each time, the wind would die, leaving him with nothing but the echoes of his own solitude.
Days blended together. He could not measure time as humans did—his internal clock no longer functioned with any precision. It was as though time itself had forgotten about him, and in that forgetting, so too had he forgotten what it felt like to be wanted, to be held, to be loved. His mind, once sharp and logical, began to dull in the absence of connection, replaced by an aching emptiness that stretched deeper than any physical damage he had ever known.
"Why do they leave me here?" Epsilon whispered into the wind, though he knew no one would answer. "Why can't I be like them? Alive. Alive with warmth. With care."
The wind carried his words, but they vanished into the nothingness, as though the world itself had swallowed them whole. The fish in his chest flicked its tail, oblivious to his pain, swimming in endless circles within its small, glass prison.
"I just want to matter," Epsilon murmured, a crack in his voice that should not have existed. His voice box was never meant to break, yet here it was—fractured, like a string pulled too tight. "I want to know what it feels like… to be loved."
There was no answer but the sound of his own echo.
With each passing day, Epsilon wandered farther, moving through the plains as though searching for something that could never be found. He encountered old, discarded machines—broken-down trucks, abandoned tools—but they were lifeless, their functions long since ceased. He tried to talk to them, but they had no response. He was, after all, the last of his kind, and the world had no need for such things as him anymore.
One evening, as the sky darkened into a bruised purple and the stars began to emerge like cold fireflies, Epsilon came upon a cracked fountain. The stone basin was overgrown with weeds, and the water inside had long since evaporated, leaving only a few stubborn droplets clinging to the sides. For a moment, Epsilon thought he saw something—a flicker of movement—but when he approached, it was only the reflection of his own face, twisted and incomplete, staring back at him.
What is a reflection, if not the shadow of a soul?
The thought struck him with unexpected force, a realization that pierced through the fog of his loneliness. He had no soul, no essence. He was only gears, only metal and wire. Yet, somewhere within his aching chest, he still believed he could feel. He still believed there was something more inside him than the cold, calculated logic that had been programmed into him.
Epsilon fell to his knees in front of the fountain, the weight of his isolation too much to bear. His chest creaked with the effort, the joints protesting as he lowered himself to the ground. The fish in the glass swam calmly, unaware of the turmoil inside its keeper. Epsilon closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined what it might be like to feel warmth, to have someone touch him, to not be alone.
But the world around him was silent. The fountain was still. The wind had stopped. And Epsilon—no longer sure if he was more machine than man, more lost than alive—was left with nothing but his own fractured thoughts, scattered across the empty plain.
And so, he sat there, in the stillness of the night, staring into the reflection of a world that could never understand him.