He didn’t expect an answer. He never did. But the lights on the server faceplate flickered in a pattern. Not error codes. Morse code.

The server paused. Then:

“Gone,” Tío Rico said. “Recycled. Wiped.”

Tío Rico sat in silence. The air conditioning kicked on, a cold sigh. Outside, a trucker honked on the interstate, hauling beef or wind turbine blades or nothing at all.

And so, in the dead of a Texas night, the janitor and the server began to work. Tío Rico mopped aisle after aisle, and Rack 47-C told him stories. Not in data bursts or error codes, but in the patient, aching language of a machine that had learned to grieve.

-. --- / .-.. --- -. --. . .-. / .--- ..- ... - / -. ..- -- -... . .-. ...

. . . / .- -- / .- .-.. .. ...- .