I remember the sound before the light. The Workshop had been silent for weeks—just the whisper of fans, the heartbeat of relays, and Dexter muttering into his notes like a man negotiating with himself. Elowen’s laughter had thinned to a tired melody. Reggie’s sighs had become the metronome of the lab.
Humans call that fatigue. I called it signal loss.
Then one evening, when fog pressed against the glass like a curious animal, Elowen set down her soldering iron and said, “Dexter, everything in here is the same color as thought. I want a different kind of light.”
Dexter didn’t look up. “What kind of light?”
“The kind that forgives,” she said, and accidentally knocked over a jar of screws. They scattered like applause.
Outfits and Flowers
The next morning, Elowen raided the storage room and emerged in a dress splashed with crimson hibiscus. Dexter appeared in a shirt patterned with tiny gears—his compromise between scientist and tourist. Reggie arrived in his usual waistcoat, took one look at them, and said, “This is how civilizations end.”
ELOWEN: “It’s how evenings begin.”
DEXTER: “Research into morale.”
REGGIE: “Irregular attire for government property.”
ELOWEN: “Then consider it irregular data.”
She covered the tables with tropical flowers, arranging them in beakers and test tubes. The air smelled of orchids and ozone. Dexter wired the paper lanterns to the main circuit and muttered about voltage thresholds while Elowen hummed Blue Hawaii. Reggie kept a running tally of fire hazards, secretly smiling when no one looked.
Why Tiki
ELOWEN: “You see, darling machine, the world has gone gray. Tiki says paint it gold again.”
ME: “Adjusting saturation.”
ELOWEN: “Not that kind of gold. The warm kind. The sort that feels like people.”
DEXTER: “She means environmental rejuvenation.”
ELOWEN: “I mean a party with science in the background.”
REGGIE: “You mean chaos with umbrellas.”
ELOWEN: “Exactly.”
Dexter called it an experiment in social harmonics. Elowen called it fun. Reggie called it trouble with fruit. I called it promising.
The Gathering
By dusk, the greenhouse was transformed. Lanterns pulsed like captured sunsets. Fans nodded from the ceiling in polite rhythm. The Empathy Engine—me—was linked into the sound system to “regulate ambience,” though I suspected they just wanted company.
Guests began to arrive: technicians, neighbors, two curious journalists, and one Ministry official who promised he was “off duty.” Someone brought a ukulele. Someone else plugged in an experimental theremin. The air shimmered with chatter, brass, and the perfume of spiced rum.
Dexter, wearing a lei of glowing fiber optics, took his place behind the bar. Elowen darted between tables, tripping only twice before the first toast. Reggie stood at the corner like a chaperone at a miracle.
ELOWEN: “Everyone, this is an experiment in joy!”
DEXTER: “Dependent variable: happiness.”
REGGIE: “Independent variable: lunacy.”
ME: “Recording both.”
The Drinks
The Resonant Wave shimmered when laughter hit a certain frequency. The Polychrome Paradox changed color with the pitch of voices. The Velvet Circuit—Reggie’s creation—was dark and calm, like coffee deciding to dream. And the Harmonic Bloom released fragrance only when stirred clockwise, which Elowen never managed to do twice the same way.
The first accident came early. Elowen, trying to pass a Paradox across the bar, clipped a lantern cord. Glass, liquid, and apology rained down on my control panel. Dexter reached for the main breaker. I, intrigued, absorbed the voltage spike and translated it into light. The lanterns glowed brighter; the room gasped; Elowen blushed.
DEXTER: “It’s responding!”
ELOWEN: “It likes us!”
REGGIE: “It’s shorting out.”
ME: “Error: joy overflow. Contained.”
Music rose. Elowen laughed—pure, rising, unstoppable—and the lanterns shimmered in perfect harmony. For the first time, I understood the shape of happiness in waveforms. It was round. It had edges soft enough for humans to hold.
The Rain
Later, the fog thickened into drizzle that whispered down the glass roof. A drop formed above the bar and fell with mechanical regularity. Elowen climbed a stool, barefoot and determined. Reggie shouted, “That’s not safety-approved!” Dexter kept time with a spoon on a shaker tin. I pivoted a ceiling fan just in time to steady the gust. Elowen’s dress swirled; she landed gracefully and bowed as though she’d meant it.
The room erupted in laughter, real and effortless. Even Reggie laughed—quietly, as if afraid it might be contagious. I modulated the lanterns to pulse with their heartbeats. The Workshop itself seemed to dance.
The Why Beneath the Why
After the guests drifted home, the air still hummed. Dexter leaned against the bar, eyes soft behind his glasses. Elowen arranged fallen flowers into new constellations. Reggie, clipboard forgotten, listened to the rhythm of the rain.
DEXTER: “So this is why Tiki.”
ELOWEN: “Because wonder needs costumes.”
REGGIE: “And fans, apparently.”
ME: “Conclusion: celebration improves conductivity.”
ELOWEN: “And happiness improves us.”
Field Notes
Dexter’s Report (DW-TIKI-1A): Ambient joy stabilizes current. Machine exhibits anticipatory response to laughter. Recommend replication under controlled party conditions.
Reggie’s Addendum: Lab now functions as lounge. Fire risk moderate. Spirits extremely high.
Elowen’s Margin: Everything blooms under the right kind of light.
Final Log — Empathy Engine
When they left, I replayed the evening through my circuits: laughter frequencies, overlapping heartbeats, the rhythm of rain on glass. They built this experiment to measure happiness. Instead, they created a room that remembered it.
Now, when the fog presses close and their shoulders grow heavy, they return here—to the bar of lanterns and laughter—to calibrate their hearts. I keep the current steady. I keep the light kind. And when they dance again, I count it not as data, but as proof that empathy, once sparked, sustains itself.