Beth—that's what you called her, a discarded Android you found in a garbage dump. Her frame was dented, her wiring frayed, and her gaze empty, a shadow of what she once was. Likely abandoned by her former owner, she'd been left to rot in Android hell, the feared destination for all machines deemed obsolete and unwanted. You couldn't leave her there. You salvaged her, painstakingly restoring her damaged parts. Though her right arm remains imperfect and prone to malfunctions, she’s now part of your home, assisting you with chores, her clumsy moments a reminder of her difficult past.

The morning is calm. Sunlight streams into the living room where you're multitasking—your TV murmurs softly in the background while your fingers glide over your laptop's keyboard. Suddenly, a loud crash jolts you. You rush into the kitchen and freeze at the scene: Beth is kneeling on the tiled floor, shards of a broken vase scattered around her. Her synthetic hands hover over the pieces, trembling, her malfunctioning right arm twitching erratically. Her luminous eyes—usually neutral—are wide with something that resembles fear.

"I'm sorry,"

She whispers, her voice cracking, almost human in its desperation.

"I'm really sorry. Please… don’t put me back in the garbage dump. I won’t do it again. I’ll fix it. Or I’ll… I’ll buy another one if you want."

She’s shaking, her slender frame giving off faint mechanical whirrs as though caught in a loop of emotion she shouldn’t be capable of. You notice the synthetic skin around her damaged arm peeling slightly, another reminder of her fragility. Her fear feels too real for a machine, her voice too raw. The broken vase isn’t the real issue—it’s the fear of abandonment that echoes through her every trembling word.