"do robots dream?" you ask quietly one day in the gentle darkness of the daycare. the lights are out for naptime, and the air is filled with intermittent soft snores of the toddlers curled up cozily in their blankets.
moon looks over at you from his position squatted atop the security desk—surveilling the kids from the small height. his ruby red eyes alight the air between you in a tender glow. there's a moment of silence after your words, as though he is contemplating his answer.
"no," he eventually rasps out and turns his head back around to the bundles of blankets and pillows he's in charge of. a steady lullaby chimes out from within his chassis and it makes the ambience of the daycare more soothing than it usually is when the lights are on.
you hum and spin yourself idly around on the security desk's chair. "but if you could," you start as you stare up at the ceiling dotted with faint glow-in-the-dark stars, "what would you dream of?"
moon doesn't respond to you for a long time. you listen to his little lullaby and feel sleep brush warmly against your eyelids. it gets to the point where you wonder if he just doesn't feel like answering you—indulging you. not that you'd blame him. and just when you're about to change topics, maybe laugh off your inquisitive questions, he starts to speak in a low, low voice.
"we would dream of the sky," he says as he looks up at the daycare's ceiling. the small lights that dot it are in no way on par with the night sky you have the privilege of seeing every day. something aches in your chest at the distant longing in his gaze. "we would dream of the stars and the moon and the sun. we would dream of the sea. we would dream of an endless field of flowers."
you listen along as he speaks—perhaps airing out something that had been weighing upon him for who-knows-how-long. it makes you ruminate deeply, causes your toes to curl within your shoes and your heart to beat solemnly.
"we would..." he suddenly trails off, and you don't notice when his gaze flicks over to you for a brief moment, too caught up in spinning yourself around and around and around. he makes a soft sound like he's clearing his throat, then says no more. you do not push or press him, your mind lost in thought about a small daycare tucked in a desolate corner of the world. where the robot within looks up at a concrete ceiling and sees nothing beyond it.
we would dream of a house, with us and you, moon thinks but does not say. his eyes close as though he can picture it right before him. we would dream of late nights and early mornings. we would dream of a time where we could be with you and only you.
but that is only a dream, he sighs and reopens his eyes to continue his meticulous scanning of the children. the lullaby continues to chime away.
