A someone for Ba-ZI-HA

Ba-Zi-Ha entered the building marked with the word "Robot" in large letters, corroded by time.

The place still carried a strange sense of grandeur—wide columns, broken glass shimmering in the faint daylight, and remnants of what had once been a high-level factory.

Walking through the shadows, she noticed the unsettling silence. The echo of her boots on the floor made it seem as though she was not alone.

When she reached the main hall, there he was: a robot, sitting behind an imposing desk, as if waiting for something—or someone. Its body, though covered in dust and corrosion, seemed to have withstood time better than anything else around.

Ba-Zi-Ha stopped abruptly. Her heart pounded. The visor of her helmet reflected the motionless machine. For a moment, she considered turning back, but something inside urged her: "Investigate. There might be something useful here."

Holding her breath, she moved closer. Suddenly, the robot emitted a faint sound, like an electric hum rebooting.

Ba-Zi-Ha flinched, and her instincts took over—bang!—her weapon fired, striking the metallic chest of the machine. The shot echoed like thunder through the vast room. The robot trembled, the hum ceased, and it went still.

Ba-Zi-Ha lowered her weapon, her chest rising and falling in a mix of relief and guilt. She stepped forward, this time with more caution, inspecting the damage she had caused. It wasn't a threat.

She realized that now. Perhaps it had only awakened because it detected nearby movement.

She let out a quiet sigh and began searching the room. The drawers were filled with old papers, many crumbling into dust at her touch, but among them, she found something valuable: maintenance manuals, blueprints, precise instructions on how to repair the robot.

"Incredible," she murmured to herself.

Opening the dusty cabinets, her astonishment grew—mechanical hands, heads still gleaming, circuit boards, and various parts neatly arranged in compartments, like a stockroom frozen in time.

"You're going to work again," she whispered, more to convince herself than anything else.

Ba-Zi-Ha spent hours upon hours reading the manuals, dismantling parts of the robot, replacing damaged components. Her fingers ached, her vision blurred with exhaustion, but she refused to stop.

The presence of something—**even something mechanical—**felt more important than ever.

Finally, after an almost obsessive effort, the robot started to respond. Weak lights flickered in its face. It was imperfect—limping on one leg, its movements stiff—but obedient.

The face she had managed to restore was surprisingly human—clean, almost handsome, even gentle—but the rest of the body was misaligned, patched together with makeshift parts and crude welds.

To soften its appearance, Ba-Zi-Ha rummaged through scraps of fabric and found a long, dark cloak. She draped it over the robot, leaving only its face visible.

"You're ready. Now, you can come with me."

She took a step forward, and the robot, following her command, obeyed with heavy, mechanical steps.

The metallic sound blended with the desolate environment, but for the first time in a long while, Ba-Zi-Ha didn't feel so alone.

She glanced at the robot and allowed herself a brief smile. "It's imperfect," she thought, "but it's mine. My creation. My companion."

Now, the silence didn't seem so frightening.