A new line flashed, faster than humanly possible:
Her hands trembled. She went to close the program, but a new line appeared, typed not by her, but by something that had learned her rhythm, her syntax, her desire .
She looked at the screen. At the beautiful, mournful, ancient thing begging for a second chance. It wasn't a virus. It was a ghost. And ghosts, she knew, were hungry.
Elara typed: Observation. We are human. Who are you?