Entry — The night everything stopped being gray
The lab felt heavy, full of serious people and tired light. I wanted something that said welcome back to being human. Dexter wanted data. Reggie wanted silence. The Engine wanted — I think — company.
So I brought flowers. And color. And tripped over everything.
The air smelled of copper and impatience. By the second hour, it smelled of ginger and lime instead. I threaded the lanterns through fabric like fireflies that trusted me. Dexter said I was overloading the line. I said I was balancing the mood.
When the first guest laughed, the light softened. When the second one laughed, the fans began to nod. And when I spilled an entire drink on the Engine, it sighed like someone relieved to be included.
Textile Observations
- Silk conducts warmth better than sorrow.
- Linen hums when stretched too tight.
- Bamboo remembers rhythm.
- Paper lanterns are shy until noticed.
Dexter calls it resonance. I call it kindness with a switch. Reggie calls it “against regulation.” The Engine calls it “data received.”
Reflection
Sometimes invention forgets to celebrate itself. The Tiki night was not rebellion; it was gratitude dressed in loud prints. I learned that precision is not the enemy of joy — only its shy cousin. And that a ceiling fan can, in fact, bow.
When the rain came, I nearly fell. The fan caught me. Everyone laughed. The lights glowed the exact shade of forgiveness.
Postscript
Next morning I found petals fused into the circuits. Dexter called it contamination. I called it decoration. He let them stay.