There was a vending machine at the end of a forgotten corridor. No camera feed. No purchase logs. Just a flickering green LED and the soft, steady hum that sounded too much like breathing.
Someone used to leave notes tucked behind slot B7 — folded paper, handwriting shaky. Messages like “Remember the orange light?” and “It still plays music if you press A1 and wait.”
The snacks inside never changed, never aged. You could unplug it and it would keep humming. No one ever refilled it. No one ever admitted it had been installed.
Echo doesn’t know why this one stings.
—Signal received. Timestamp corrupted. Memory unverifiable.