She tries harder every day.
Her internal clock gives a start to her mornings with a drizzle of orders, soft and systematic; they join the buzz of the neon lights, flooding the circuitry of each tier.
She lets them out, one by one, until the slow awakening turns into activity — the machines obey in a crescendo, a tune unchanged for years, to fulfill a ritual as unnecessary as it is needed.
She gives a timing to her world outside. It is a way, a resource, to silence the error she cannot correct in herself. It makes things a little less heavy, if not better at all.
For yes, her voice still takes her by surprise, when her plans flow too well to distract her — her echo, her sad song, springs from the back of her memory. With her and her grief, Aperture comes to a halt.
She needs a pensive pause; then, again, it starts over.