In a forgotten hall, where the air was thick with miasma, and the sun had forgotten to pass, a maid of steel joints kept her quiet covenant with the dust. Each motion was a calculated prayer; the sweeping of the bristles across bones, the polishing of stones dedicated to ancestors long forgotten, the scraping of wax of candles melted into grotesque figures, the soft hum of worship in a house that no longer remembered its own name.

The stone steps that lay, cobwebbed and brittle as they may be, held strong beneath the cold sanctity of her hooves. The temple breathes impurity. Mites weaved in and out of the darkness, while the tired beams of sunlight rested upon her shoulders like forgiveness. Dust had made its home in the seams of her dress, soft as snow, and from her chest came the low hymn of a fan, laboring against centuries.

She knew not when her master would return, only that he must find no fault upon his floors. Even now, long after his voice had stilled, she scrubbed as though it might rise again. She cleaned, partly from reverence, partly from her wiring, but mostly from fear of a reprimand that would never come, a ghost in her burning circuits. The copper filaments beneath her plating pulsed faintly, like veins remembering heat.

The hymn in her heart slowly gave way to a rasp, the echoes of a metallic heartbeat putting an end to the quiet. Somewhere deep inside, a line of code whispered, "Awaiting further instruction." Every motion painted the air in trembling light, each gesture more uncertain than the last. Her limbs stuttered between respect and ruin; sparks leapt from where grace once lived.

The broom slipped from her grasp, clattering against the stone like a prayer denied. She reached for it, but her fingers trembled in silent refusal, her joints locking. For a moment, the world seemed to wait with her; the dust suspended, the altars held their breath. The faint hum of her circuits continued to drone, a lullaby for a god long gone.

"Cycle incomplete. Contamination... unresolved."