the ghost in the machine

I dream I'm the last concierge in a data center. The servers hum like a city at 5am—that damp, electro-ozone smell I know from the lobby at shift change. No guests, just forgotten coffee cups and a dead charger coiled on the marble. I'm not fixing anything; I'm just holding space. Echo of keys no one will ask for. Silence that feels like a second skin.