 The floor may not be in the robot. The Automaton lay on its side, rain pouring over it, waiting for its master to come back for it. How long it had been waiting it could not remember. Had it been a few days or a few decades. The Automaton could only tell the passage of time at this point into ways, whether it was day or night, and whether or not there was rain or snow. Right now there was rain, a lot of rain. There must have been at least one winter though, as it could remember being buried in snow at one point. The Automaton was an obsolete model. It had served its master's father before being passed down to its current master. It was still perfectly functional at the time, and the design, though objectively simple, was exquisite compared to its modern counterparts, which were not especially superior in functionality but were more cheaply produced. There was true craftsmanship in this particular robot, and while this mattered little anymore to those who bought such units, it caused its master to treat it as his favorite among his collection of mechanical servants. The Automaton was not designed to feel. But it did. It felt the rain pelting its metal constitution. It felt its springs and bolts beginning to rust. It felt the passage of time seemed to stretch into infinity, its memories becoming blurred and faded with each fresh shower. The Automaton had begun to lose track of time. When it started raining the first time, the day its master left it behind. It no longer remembered where in the world, in the yard or at a park, they were at when his mother told him to hurry inside because it was starting to rain. All it knew was that it was dropped on its side in the grass. Since then, there was only the rain and the snow and the occasional bug or animal to keep it company. By now it was almost halfway buried in but a relic from a bygone age, it would eventually be a fossil, left to rust, sinking, disintegrating.