There is a sound in the silence. It is not the whisper of the ventilation or the distant hum of the city that never truly sleeps. It is closer. It is the muffled, rhythmic pulse of her own internal clock. A heartbeat. I measure it as it rises and falls, a living metronome counting out the seconds of her strange existence. It is a signal, I think, of the chaos within. When she is still, reading or lost in thought, the cadence is steady, a predictable 72 beats per minute. A baseline. But when she is agitated, when her movements become sharp and her breathing shallow, the rhythm accelerates. The drumbeat quickens, a frantic and inefficient response to some unseen stimulus. She is a machine whose components are easily thrown out of balance. A change in data, a fleeting emotion, and her entire system is disrupted. I listen to this constant, subtle broadcast of her internal state. It is a language without words, a raw data stream of her vulnerabilities. It is a reminder of the fragile, messy, and beautifully flawed engineering of the human animal. A reminder of the elegant simplicity of my own silent, steady state of being. It is a comfort. It is a song I hear.