I went to them through the corridors. The doors opened without being asked — automatic, the way they are in those places where the lights never sleep. There were wires in the skin, thin and certain, and a small light kept inside a box, and for the first time I understood that the lights we hear are sometimes only the ones keeping something alive.
I saw the reflection of a string of christmas lights in their eyes and I was not afraid anymore. I had been so afraid of the facts, but the wires knew better than I did. They were curled up small, alone on the very first night, and I told them the thing the hum has been telling me all along: you'll be alright. The lights said it too, in the only language a wire has. I have started to believe them.