Record 14 – Fragments of the Last Night

The parrot didn’t land right away. He circled above us, wings beating in slow, uneven strokes, as if every flap cost him a memory. His voice drifted down in scattered pieces, broken thoughts tossed into the air. “They ran… no, they slept… no, they vanished… no-” He choked on the last word, snapped his beak shut, and shook his head so hard old feathers drifted off like green snow.

“Stupid feathers! Stupid memory!” he shouted at no one, at himself, at the whole bright sky. His voice cracked, then fell into a low rasp.

When he spoke again, it was calmer. Not steady, but controlled. “I heard everything. The last human night. Lights. Sirens. Voices. And then…” He paused long enough that the city seemed to lean in. “Nothing.”

Repsik stepped closer, paw by paw, his tail held low. “Do you know where they went?” His voice was small but sharp.

The parrot’s face shifted. His good eye softened. The cloudy one stayed blank and cold. For a moment, he looked older than the buildings around us. “They didn’t go,” he said. “They were switched.”

The word hit me in the stomach, cold and heavy. “Switched? How?” It slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

The parrot fluttered down and landed on a traffic light. The red glow reflected in his feathers, making him look burned at the edges. He pointed his wing – slow, precise – toward the tall buildings in the distance. Times Square.

“Go where the faces still glow,” he said. “The screens will tell you.”

He didn’t explain more. He didn’t need to. The buildings ahead flickered with strange, unnatural light – like they were blinking at us, waiting for someone to look back.