The shelter was so much more than just walls and machines now—it felt almost alive, shaped by the people who called it home. Everywhere Alex looked, he could see the system's quiet touch: the lights shifting from golden and cozy to a deep, peaceful blue as the evening wore on, the gentle hum of music that seemed to match whatever mood the group was in. Even the air was comforting—a mix of fresh bread from the oven, clean sheets, and the sweet scent of Rhea's flowers drifting in from the garden.
Some nights, when sleep wouldn't come, Alex would walk the halls with bare feet and just breathe it all in. He'd find himself marveling at how the shelter seemed to know what they needed before they did. If someone was upset, a hidden door might slide open to reveal a quiet little nook, perfect for a private talk or a moment alone. When the loneliness got too much, the system would gently nudge everyone toward the main lounge, where cushions waited by a crackling digital fire, and someone would always be there to listen or share a laugh.
Sometimes, it felt like magic—coming into the kitchen to find a bottle of wine after a hard day, or waking up to the smell of cinnamon rolls when spirits were low. Maybe it was just programming, but Alex liked to believe the system understood that staying alive was more than numbers and rations. They needed each other. They needed joy, and comfort, and the small, everyday moments that made it all feel real