We are on opposite sides of a wooden desk in a white house.

"Do you plan to implement any laws regarding robots?" I ask.

She doesn't speak.

"Your voters are scared that they will take over our jobs, our towns, even the world!" I prompt her.

Silence.

"And so am I, frankly. They're not even human! Why should we treat them as such?"

Her gaze is cold steel as she removes her jacket, top button, middle button—

Metal. Wires. Oscillators.

I am speechless as she leans forward.

"Because mechanical hearts still feel pain."

At first, her words sound out of tune.

Too sharp, it cuts you, it stings.

Listen again, her tone resonates

with a colour that transcends your diatonic scale.

All these years you’ve tried to fit her

on ebony, ivory,

but she fell between the chromatic gaps

into the very bowels of the pianoforte

where for years she has sung

muted.

Can you hear her now?

Her tone is shaking, as is her.

Her words are of flute timbre

They sing the truth.