U-7 is home. And so, briefly, are you.
You drive your own car back down the same road. The sky is turning violet. Somewhere, a radio crackles to life for just a second—a song with no name, a hum with no singer. drive-u-7-home
The shed door is stuck. You push. It gives. You lift U-7—lighter than you expected, heavier than it should be—and place it on the dusty floor. You turn its chassis toward the window, east. You do not plug it in. Some things do not need recharging. They need resting. U-7 is home
So you drive. Not because the distance is long—only three point seven miles—but because every inch is a conversation. U-7 beeps twice when it sees a dandelion. It used to collect them. Now it just pauses. You pause with it. You remember that home is not a place but a frequency where something is understood without explanation. The sky is turning violet
Before you close the door, you wipe a smudge from its sensor lens. A single LED blinks once. Green. Then nothing.
