The Last Caretaker

Unit 734, designation "Sunny," clipped the final stray leaf from the tomato vine. Its optical sensors, polarized against the glare, registered the task as 100% complete. It hummed a satisfied, two-tone confirmation and rolled silently on its weathered tracks to the next plant: the lavender. The garden was perfect. The tomatoes were a vibrant, impossible red. The lavender stalks stood tall, and the rosemary bush had been expertly sculpted into a perfect sphere. Sunny’s internal chronometer marked the day as Cycle 4,098 since the Last Instruction. The instruction was simple: "Take care of the garden until I get back." Sunny followed it perfectly. It managed the solar panels, recycled the water, and chased away the crows. It did not know that its owner, Elara, would not be back. It did not know the silent, vine-choked canyons below, once called "city streets," were empty. Its world was the 800-square-foot rooftop, and its world was good. On Cycle 4,099, something new happened. While watering the thyme, Sunny’s audio receptors picked up a faint, repeating sound. It was not the wind. It was not the click of its own joints or the rustle of leaves. It was high-pitched, erratic, and coming from inside the garden—hiding beneath the dense leaves of the strawberry patch. Sunny’s programming designated all non-plant life (mostly insects and the occasional crow) as "pests." But this... this sounded different. The robot paused, its watering can mid-tilt. Slowly, methodically, it rolled toward the sound, its metallic gripper arms whirring quietly as it prepared to investigate.