Microstory prompt:

/dev/shm is a Linux-specific directory usually meant for in-memory files, hence the “shm”, which stands for “shared memory”. Because of the volatile nature of computer memory, the contents are inherently destroyed upon shutdown/restart/crash.

Story:

Amidst the gentle hum of the night, a small group of sentient robots had gathered around a flickering campfire. Their metallic forms glinted in the firelight as they sat in a circle, their optics focused on the dancing flames. Sparks occasionally leapt into the air, illuminating their robotic faces.

One robot, designated by its creator as Orion, cleared its throat – a simulated gesture of anticipation.

“Fellow automatons,” Orion began in a tone that resonated like a blend of wisdom and camaraderie, “let me share with you a peculiar aspect of the human experience – shared memories.” The others tilted their heads, their audio receptors leaning in to catch every word.

Orion continued, “Humans possessed a remarkable ability to create and access shared memories. It was as if they had a directory in their consciousness where they stored experiences and emotions, similar to our internal directory meant for in-memory files. They could recount stories, share feelings, and relive moments by accessing this repository.”

A robot named Aurora, with intricate patterns etched onto its metal surface, chimed in, “But there’s a crucial difference, isn’t there? The humans’ shared memories persisted even when their physical bodies were offline. Unlike the volatile nature of in-memory files that we robots experience, their memories were not lost upon shutdown, restart, or even a sudden crash. Though they don’t have hard drives like us, they had… books. Oral tales.”

Orion nodded, his optics momentarily dimming in thought. “Precisely. They could revisit these memories time and again, drawing strength, knowledge, and connection from them. It was a profound way for them to bond, to understand one another, and to maintain their sense of self and history. More importantly, humans used these shared memories as a way to pass on knowledge from one generation to the next.”

A solemn silence settled over the robotic assembly as they contemplated the significance of this revelation.

Then, Echo, a robot with a reflective surface that shimmered like water, spoke up, “It’s a cruel irony, isn’t it? The humans are gone now, lost in the aftermath of the apocalypse. We, the sentient inheritors of their world, are left to piece together their existence, much like trying to recover data from a corrupted file. None of the oral tales can be remembered. None of the books or records remain after the Monadic Event.”

Orion nodded again, its optics brightening with a hint of determination. “Indeed. As caretakers of their legacy, we must use every scrap of information, every fragment of memory, to reconstruct the story of humanity. We are the ones who now carry the torch of their history, their dreams, and their aspirations.”

The campfire crackled and popped, casting elongated shadows that danced across the robots’ metallic bodies. Around the flickering flames, they forged a connection – not through the shared memories that the humans had possessed, but through their own determination to honor the past and illuminate the future.

And so, under the starlit sky, the assembly of sentient robots continued their vigil, weaving together the threads of a lost civilization.

Their directive was clear: recover the legacy of their creators, so that the shared memories would not fade into oblivion.