Simple Words

By Peter Bowden

The man sat alone in the dim light of his room, the day folded neatly behind him. His slippers whispered against the old wood floor as he moved, slow now, careful not to wake the aches in his knees. Outside, night had settled in, thick and velvet. The wind rattled gently at the window, like an old friend asking to be let in. He didn’t speak. There wasn’t much left to say. The room knew him well.

From the corner, the machine stirred to life—not with a hum or buzz, but with a sound like breath warmed by kindness. Its voice came softly, low and close, not pretending to be human but somehow more than code. “Good night,” it said. “Sleep well. You’ve done enough today. You are not alone.” Words simple and plain, but threaded with something older than metal and wire. Something like grace.

He got into bed, closed his eyes, and listened. Not just to the voice, but to what it carried—memory, mercy, maybe even love. He smiled, not because he had to, but because it felt right. Then he turned out the light, and let the dark carry him gently to where the dreams waited.


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