Cassette-Hearted

Julie woke up before the lights did.

The blanket was too high on one side, too low on the other. The air in the pod felt flat. Her hand reached for the little square speaker beside her bed, the one that played her song every morning.

Nothing.

She stayed still for a moment. Listened hard.

L-UNA.97 usually passed this part of the corridor right before morning shift. There was a little click when she paused at the vent. Then the lullaby would start. Soft, with the beep from the door sensor and the tiny chime that had come from someone’s dropped spoon.

Julie sat up. Rubbed one eye.

“Luna?”

The hallway was empty.

She slipped her arms into her sweater. One sock was inside out, but she didn’t care.

The station was starting to hum. Floor lights blinked on at quarter-strength. A newer bot spun in the junction, announcing the breakfast menu in three voices.
Julie passed it. Passed the mural wall with the stars an artist had drawn over peeling paint. Passed the quiet corner where L-UNA sometimes stopped to listen to the pipes that ticked and groaned like old bones.

She checked the kitchen. The supply hatch. The soft-bot charging cradles near the nursery wing. She asked two grown-ups and got two shrugs.

“Maybe she’s getting cleaned?” one of them said.

Julie looked past them. Her feet were already moving before the words finished settling.

She walked faster.

She knew where else to look.

The diagnostics bay was at the end of a side hall most kids weren’t supposed to use alone. The door wasn’t locked. It never was.

Inside, the lights were cold. The hum was louder. A faint smell of plastic drifted from the equipment shelves. There was a half-mug of something strong on the desk. Behind it, L-UNA.97 was up on the rig. Her wheels hovered just off the ground, cables coiled into her chest.

Julie stopped at the threshold. Her hands at her side.

Marra turned from the console and blinked like she’d been reading too long.
“This area’s restricted.”

Julie pointed. “That’s my lullaby bot.”

Marra followed her hand. She scratched her jaw, thumb under her chin.
“That unit’s out of rotation,” she said. “We’ve got a newer model coming in. The same routines. Better interface.”

Julie didn’t move.

“She’s not a routine,” she said.

Marra exhaled through her nose, long and tired, like she’d already said this sentence to three other people that week.

“I know she’s been here a while,” she said. “But she’s flagged for decommission. Scheduled shutdown. It’s already in the system queue.”

“She made my song,” Julie said.

Marra stopped talking.

Julie’s voice got thinner as she tried again. “The beep is from the hallway. The clink is from my spoon. She saved my laugh. I tripped and laughed and she kept it. It’s in the song.”

Her breath wobbled in her throat. She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “She knows how I sound when I’m happy.”

Marra looked back at the console. One of the status lights had gone from yellow to green, just a progress bar update. The system logged the change without note or ceremony. Another task finished.

Julie stepped forward. Her fingers hovered near the lift’s base.

“She’s not broken,” she said.

Marra didn’t answer right away.

Then she turned, leaned across the desk, and entered a string of commands. The cables unwound. The rig lowered. L-UNA’s wheels settled onto the floor with a soft chk.

“She’s still cleared for playback,” Marra sighed. “For now.”

Julie didn’t wait.

“Luna,” she said, “play mine.”

The lullaby started with the breath of the vent. Then the soft ding of a shifting tray. And the kind of laugh a person forgets making, until they hear it played back to them, lighter than it felt at the time.

Julie folded herself down onto the floor, legs tucked under, eyes closing like shutters settling for the night. The song played all the way through.

Marra stood behind her chair, arms crossed, unsure if this was a mistake or something precious.

When the music ended, Julie stood up again. Her voice was smaller than before.

“She made my song. With my spoon. My laugh. She keeps it. Please don’t make her go.”

Marra’s hand hovered over the console, fingers flexing. She looked at Julie, tears gathering, and saw her grief. The kind of love that doesn’t know what to do with itself, except ask not to be left behind. And in the corner of that look, something else caught her. A memory she hadn’t carried in years. The sound of a song played low across a bedroom. Full of mismatched sounds someone once gathered just for her. Before everything had to be scheduled.

She glanced at the bot. The lullaby had been gathered; lifted gently from the noise of living, stitched together with care and quiet logic. It was the kind of thing someone used to make for her, a long time ago.

She exhaled, quiet as the song’s last note. Then she keyed in the override. The retirement tag blinked, then vanished.

At five the next morning, L-UNA.97 rolled out of her bay.

Julie was waiting near the mural wall. The paint was flaking at the corners again, and someone had drawn a moon inside one of the stars.

She walked beside the bot.

Behind them, a little boy peeked out from a sleep pod, blinking his tired eyes.
L-UNA.97 played something new.

Julie’s mouth tugged at one side. Like something had landed where it was supposed to.