The evening sun spilled its warm orange light through the glass panels of the dining room, casting long shadows across the table where Lira sat with her parents. It was rare for the three of them to gather like this, and the warm presence of her mother and father filled the normally quiet space with an unusual brightness.

Her mother laughed lightly at something her father had said—a sound so genuine that it momentarily erased the tension that always seemed to linger in the air of Echo Prime. They shared stories, boring yet comforting, as though trying to press all the time they had lost into this one short dinner. For one small moment, Lira allowed herself to believe that things could stay this way. She hoped that time could stop, even momentarily, so that she could forever memorize this seldom moment. Sunlight shone through the clear glass windows, putting a highlight on her parent's face, making their smile look caring and loving. Their age old but eyes strong and lively, she curled her lips.

"Lira, how's your technician-job going?" her mother asked, her green eyes glinting with curiosity.

"It's fine," Lira replied, glancing down at her plate. She didn't want to burden her parents with her doubts—not today, not when they all seemed so... normal. "I'm learning a lot."

Her father chuckled. "That's the Lira I know. Always sharp, always moving forward."

Lira smiled faintly, but the warmth in her chest wavered when her mother's wristband sounded. The shrill beep of a message shattered the fragile calmness, like a needle hammered through clear glass. Lira's mother frowned, her expression folding together, brow furrowed, lips together forming a straight line. She looked up hesitantly at Lira.

"I have to take this," she said, standing up. "It's... urgent."

Lira's chest tightened. "But you just got here."

Her mother hesitated, looking at her with a mixture of guilt and determination. "It won't be long, sweetie."

But Lira knew better, whenever you were with her mother, not long equals six or more hours. Her mother kissed her father's cheek and gave Lira's hand a short squeeze before stepping out, her heels tapping softly against the tiled floor.

Her father tried to bridge the gap left in her mother's absence, his voice warm but strained. "Hey, why don't we play a game? Remember that strategy puzzle you used to beat me at?"

Before Lira could answer, his wristband buzzed too. The same high-pitched urgency. His face hardened, and a deep sigh escaped him.

"Not you too," Lira whispered, her voice breaking.

"I'll make it quick," he said, though his words felt like empty promises. He knelt beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We do this for you, Lira. For everyone."

"For everyone but me," she muttered angrily, turning away, refusing to see him even out the corner of her eye. Her father hesitated, but the call left him no time to argue. A moment later, he was gone too.

The silence that followed felt unbearable. Lira stared at the untouched food on her plate, the joy from earlier dissolving into an aching pitch black void. They always said their work was important, even essential for the city's operation, but she couldn't understand why it had to mean missing moments like this. Moments that mattered.

Her eyes wandered to the family portrait on the wall—three smiling faces frozen in a time before obligations had swallowed her parents whole, leaving nothing else more than human models that only knew how to work. It was as if their memory and their brain were taken over by the productive Harmonic Voice, but Lira knew that they were conscious, making conscious decisions, and choosing work before her. She wanted to be angry, to demand answers, but all she felt was a heavy, unshakable sadness. Was it sadness that she couldn't do anything about it? Or was it sadness that she was always the one left behind in the choice between work and family? Lira doesn't know, probably because both feelings were so strong she could not feel the difference in between.

Lira clenched her fists, feeling the familiar pang of loneliness settle in her chest. Once again, she was left to navigate the silence, her questions, and the shadow of her own doubts—all on her own.

For a while, Lira just sat there, staring at nothing. The sun was already setting, its red and orange body sinking through the horizon. In turn, the sky slowly became dark blue until there was no sight of the orange hue left. Lira sighed, it was always like this, why did she care anyways. Would I feel better if I was a maniac for work, if I didn't care about our family relationships that much? She thought to herself, tilting her head lightly on her crossed arms, watching the evening sky.

As the last tone of sunlight faded and the dining room was cloaked in shadows, the emptiness was so strong it was hard for Lira to gaslight herself into believing that she didn't care. The once-warm table, now cold and lifeless, mirrored how Lira felt inside. She let her eyes wander to the glowing city of Echo Prime beyond the transparent glass panels. The city was alive as always—with flickering lights, streaking pods, and the faint hum of the Harmonic Voice operating. It was a city that never rested, and neither, did its people.

She moved her eyes elsewhere, and the faint reflection of her own face in the window caught her off guard. She looked older than she felt, lines of weariness engraved in her young, beautiful face. She inspected the reflection closely, examining her face when an abrupt beep interrupted the silence.

The wristband on her own arm buzzed softly, pulling her from her thoughts. A notification, something about shifts and updates from the technician association. She silenced it without second thought, frustration bubbling from beneath. It was just another reminder of the inescapable machine they were all part of, the endless cycle of duty and expectation.

She stood, pushing her chair back with more force than she intended. The scrape of the legs against the tile, screeching in the quiet room, a torture to the ear. Walking to the kitchen counter, she poured herself a glass of water although there was no feeling of thirst at all. The cool liquid slid down her throat, but it did nothing to ease the heat of her frustration.

Lira stared at the water glass in her hand, her mind spiraling. What would happen if she just... left? If she walked out of this dining room, this suffocating city, and found a place where she could breathe freely? A place where wristbands didn't control lives, where family dinners weren't shattered by stupid obligations?

She shook her head, setting the glass down with an adamant thud. No, that was a coward's thought. Running wouldn't solve anything, but staying felt like surrending. Lira's hands gripped the counter, knuckles whitening as more strength was added. There had to be a middle ground, a third choice, a way to exist without losing herself in the endless demands of Echo Prime.

A faint whirring sound of gears broke her train of thoughts. She turned to see the family's old assistant robot entering the room, its metallic color gleaming peacefully in the yellow light. It approached her hesitantly, almost as if it could sense her mood. The droid was there the day she was born, although it was old, the metal was polished and new gears were added every so and then to make it just as new.

"Miss Valen," it said in it's soft robotic tone. "Would you like me to clear the table?"

Lira stared at the droid for a long moment, her anger softening into something else... pity? Perhaps. Like her, it was just another cog in the machine, tied to tasks it hadn't chosen. Or was it envy? She envied how the robot didn't have any emotions, any sadness at all.

"No," she said quietly, her voice firmer than she expected. "I'll do it."

The droid hesitated before retreating, its quiet footsteps fading into the hallway. Lira moved to the table, slowly picking up the untouched plates.

By the time the table was cleared, the room felt colder. Lira stood there, staring out the window again, her reflection now barely visible in the darkened glass. Somewhere out there in the big productive city, her parents were doing their jobs—saving lives, managing systems, keeping Echo Prime running. It was noble work, she knew. Essential work. But it still left her feeling small and insignificant, like the one always sacrificed, the one always left behind.

Her wristband buzzed again. This time, it was a message from a colleague—a minor issue with one of the city's core energy modules. Lira's first instinct was to ignore it, to cling to what little remained of the evening. But the guilt crept in almost immediately. If she didn't respond, someone else would have to pick up the surplus work. Someone else would be pulled away from their own dinner, their own family.

With a heavy sigh, she tapped the wristband, skimming the message before sending a quick response: I'll be there in 5 minutes.

She grabbed her gray jacket, enveloping herself in it, and stepped out into the cold night.