Lonely Robot in a Forgotten Wasteland The Final Loop

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He sat there, motionless, for countless cycles. His joints creaked with every slightest movement, but today he didn't move. The light in his eyes, two dim bulbs behind cracked glass, flickered faintly—like the last sparks of a long-extinguished fire. Behind him, gears piled up, rusty, worn by the ravages of time, as if even the metal had grown weary. Around him lay empty cans, forgotten packaging, plastic that never rots. A small meadow of moss crept timidly over the metal, as if it wanted to give the scrap a burial. He was the last. The last of his model, the last of his purpose, the last with a function no one needed anymore. Once, he was a repair robot, built for the great factory buildings, a healer of machines. But the buildings no longer stood. The factories had fallen, in ruins and shadows. People had found new places, new cities, or... none at all. "Maintenance required," a tired radio message echoed in his chest, so quiet that only the wind could hear it. He no longer thought in words, only in loops. In endless commands that ran into the void. Somewhere deep in his mechanical brain, an order repeated itself: "Find the defect. Fix it." But there was no defect left for him to find. Only decay. Only rust. His hand rested on his knee, his fingers loosely intertwined. One finger was missing, another was bent. The joints were open, wires like copper veins sticking out into nothingness. He remembered—could a robot remember?—the moment the lights of the last workshop went out. When the people left and no one looked back. He had stayed behind, with the command: "Wait here." He waited. And waited. And at some point, he stopped knowing what for. The rain came and went, washing away the dust, leaving more behind. The sun shone on him until the pigments of his painted armor plates faded. The moon watched him, night after night, but even he could say nothing. Weeds grew between his feet. A small vine dared to wind its way up his shin, as if seeking purchase. He didn't notice it. Perhaps he would have given it a name, if he had still known names. "System error. Unknown condition. Please contact a technician." A final sentence, buried deep in his circuit boards. But no technician came. No human came. No life came. Only the sound of the gears, which the wind sometimes still turned, as if playing a song whose melody was long lost. And so he sat there. A monument of iron and sadness. A relic of a time no one remembered. Night fell. His eyes glowed one last time, flickered, trembled—and went out. The wind ripped through the rusty gears, making them creak. A quiet sound. Like a sigh. Like a farewell. Then it was quiet.