Winter Recollections of Melgund

Paul stumbled upon Unit 734 and Unit 201, their blue lights blinking softly as they recounted the vibrant stories of Melgund Township's past year, all seen through the lens of community events.

The Melgund Community Centre always smelled of floor wax and something vaguely like old biscuits, even in winter. Today, though, a new smell clung to the air: a faint, sharp scent, like static after a balloon trick. Paul, his mitts stuffed into his pockets, traced the worn linoleum with the toe of his boot. He’d been told to wait. Waiting was mostly just listening to the quiet, which sometimes was worse than noise. The hum started low, a soft thrumming that vibrated up through the soles of his too-big winter boots. It wasn't the hum of the old fridge in the kitchen, or the buzz of the fluorescent lights that always made his eyes tired. This was different. Deeper, almost like a purr.

He slid his hands out of his pockets, the wool scratching his skin. His breath made a small cloud in the slightly chilly air of the hallway. He tilted his head, listening harder. The sound came from the small room at the end of the hall, the one with the ’Office of Community Projects’ sign. Nobody was usually in there on a Saturday afternoon, not after the Christmas market packed up last week. His dad had said to stay put. But the hum… it pulled at him. Like when a bee buzzed near a flower, and you just had to look.

Paul pushed off the wall, his coat rustling, a small scuff mark appearing where his shoulder had been. He walked slowly, each step a small scritch on the floor. The sound grew clearer. It wasn't just humming. There were clicks, too. Little, fast clicks, like rain on a tin roof, but inside. His hand reached the doorknob. It was cold, a smooth, grey metal knob. He twisted it, slowly, carefully, not wanting to make a sound. The door gave a soft groan, a long, drawn-out sound that always made him jump. Not today. He was too focused on the hum.

He peered into the room. It was small, filled with a big, plain table and some chairs pushed in crookedly. On the table, near the window where weak winter light struggled to get in, sat two things. They weren’t like the old grey computer at his house. These were flat, like really big tablets, maybe. Each one glowed with a soft blue light, a tiny, steady pulse. And the hum… it was them. They were *doing* something. Paul stepped inside, the door easing shut behind him with a soft click.

He shuffled closer, his eyes wide. The blue glow made the dust motes in the air dance, tiny specks like faraway stars. One of the devices, the one closest to him, made a soft, synthetic chime. A series of words scrolled across its flat screen, too fast for Paul to read, then stopped. Then another chime, from the second device. It was like they were… talking. But without mouths.

Paul blinked. His stomach gave a little rumble. Lunch had been hours ago. This was much more interesting than waiting for his dad to finish talking to Mrs. Davison about the new outdoor rink. He edged closer to the table, his breath catching in his throat. He could almost feel the tiny vibrations coming off the devices. They felt warm, not hot. Just… warm.

The first device, its designation ’Unit 734’ visible in small script on its bezel, emitted a crisp, low tone. Its screen showed a few words, then faded. Paul squinted, trying to read. Too quick. The other one, ’Unit 201’, replied with a similar tone, slightly higher pitched. Paul imagined them as two quiet people, just sitting and thinking. He didn’t know what they were. His dad had just said they were 'community support units'. Whatever that meant.

Then, a voice. Not a human voice, not exactly. It was smooth, calm, like the voice on his educational apps, but clearer. It came from Unit 734. "Data stream: Melgund Canada Day Festival, previous cycle." The words were slow, carefully formed. Paul stood still, his heart thumping a little. It was talking. To the other one.

Unit 201 responded. "Analysis complete. Event parameters: music, visual arts, local vendors. Positive feedback loop identified. Community participation: high." Its voice was similar, but with a barely perceptible echo, like it was talking from just a bit further away.

Paul hugged himself, his jacket rustling again. Canada Day. He remembered the red and white flags, the bouncy castle, the smell of maple syrup. He’d lost his balloon that day. He remembered crying. But the bots… they just said 'positive feedback loop'. Was that like fun? He wasn’t sure. Fun was bouncy castles and cotton candy, not 'feedback loops'.

Unit 734 continued, its blue light pulsing a little faster. "Facilitation of sound system logistics. Schedule optimisation for artist performances. Real-time crowd flow metrics. Task automation efficiency: 98.3 percent." It rattled off numbers, things that didn’t make sense to Paul. He knew what a sound system was. It was the big loud speakers. But ’optimisation’? That was a big word.

"Resource allocation: precise," Unit 201 added. "Volunteer scheduling assistance. Reduced administrative overhead by 23 percent for committee members." Paul knew what volunteers were. His mum was a volunteer for the library. She always said it was a lot of work. So, these things made it less work?

Paul walked around the table, his boots shuffling. He looked out the window. The snow was falling in big, lazy flakes now. It looked peaceful. He wondered if the bots liked snow. Did they even notice it? He touched the edge of the table, feeling the cool, smooth wood. It wasn't the rough picnic tables from Canada Day. This was inside-table wood.

### Autumn Market Memories

Unit 734 shifted its glow to a deeper blue. "Transition: Melgund Autumn Artists Market and Music Jamboree. September cycle." Paul remembered that, too. The colourful tents, the smell of roasted nuts, his mum buying a scarf with little owls on it. He’d helped carry some bags. That was fun. Hard work, but fun.

"Oral history archiving project engagement: 72 percent completion," Unit 201 stated. "Digital tool integration for artist submissions: 100 percent adoption. Vendor payment processing automation: active." Paul understood some of that. Oral history. His grandpa talked about old stories a lot. Sometimes the stories were really long, about things from before his dad was born. So these things helped tell stories?

"Increased artist visibility metrics," Unit 734 continued. "Enhanced local talent promotion. Community morale index: elevated." Morale. That was a word his teacher used. It meant feeling good. So the bots made people feel good? It seemed like they just sat there and glowed blue. How could a glow make people feel good?

Paul chewed on his lip. He picked at a loose thread on his jacket cuff. He knew the artists market was cool. He liked seeing all the paintings and the weird sculptures made of metal. But the bots made it sound like… a list. Like a grocery list, but for people's feelings and music. It felt a bit odd.

"Fun parameter evaluation: subjective, qualitative data aggregated," Unit 201 chimed in, almost as if answering Paul’s unspoken thought. "Report: High positive correlation between community engagement and perceived enjoyment. Optimal outcome." Paul frowned. Perceived enjoyment. He just called it fun. It was easier.

He kicked at a table leg, not too hard. The wood gave a dull thud. His dad would be mad if he left a mark. "Are you… talking about fun?" Paul whispered, mostly to himself. He knew the bots couldn't really hear him. Not like a person could. But their lights pulsed in response, a synchronised, slow beat.

"Affirmative," Unit 734 stated, its voice still calm, unblinking. "Processing collected data on community enjoyment factors. Identifying optimal conditions for future positive engagement." So they were trying to figure out how to make more fun. That sounded nice. But also… weird. Like, how do you *figure out* fun? It just happened, like when you found a really cool stick in the woods.

### Building Capacity

The conversation shifted, the tones of the bots becoming a little more rapid, more complex. "Capacity building initiatives: ongoing. Digital literacy workshops: 15 sessions delivered. Participation rates: 85 percent for adults, 60 percent for youth." Unit 734’s light flickered, almost a dance.

Paul knew about digital literacy. That was learning how to use computers better. His mum had gone to one of those workshops. She’d said it was actually pretty good, even if the instructor talked too fast. She’d learned how to make a picture move on a screen. That sounded like magic to Paul.

"Facilitation of grant application processes: 12 successful applications. Total funding acquired for community projects: $87,500," Unit 201 reported. "Task automation in municipal administration: reduced weekly labour by an estimated 14 hours. Redeployment of human resources to direct community interaction roles." Dollars. A lot of dollars. Paul knew dollars were important. They bought things. Like new hockey sticks. Or more bouncy castles.

He traced a finger along the glossy surface of Unit 734. It felt smooth, cool. No dust on it. These things were always clean. He wondered if they ever got tired. Or bored. He got bored sometimes, especially when he had to sit still for a long time. These units just sat there, always working.

"Oral history transcription and cataloguing: project acceleration. Estimated completion by fiscal quarter 2, next cycle. Data preservation integrity: 99.9 percent." Unit 734’s voice felt a bit faster now, a steady stream of information. "Enhancement of local historical narrative accessibility for all age groups."

Paul pictured his grandpa, leaning back in his old armchair, telling stories about the old days. The bots were like really good listeners, but they remembered everything. All the names, all the dates, all the little details. He always forgot some of them. It was a lot to remember.

"Empowerment of community members through access to digital tools: measurable positive impact on local enterprise. Small business growth rate in facilitated sectors: 4.2 percent annualised." Unit 201’s response seemed to confirm this quiet efficiency. They made things grow. Not like plants, but like… chances. Opportunities. His dad used that word a lot, too.

Paul imagined a network of invisible wires stretching out from the community centre, reaching all the houses, all the businesses, all the people in Melgund. The bots were like the centre of it, the quiet hum that made everything else work a bit smoother, a bit faster. It wasn’t a flashy kind of help, not like a superhero. It was more like… the steady drip of the tap that filled the bucket, one drop at a time.

He remembered the smell of the roasted corn at the Canada Day festival. The way the musician’s guitar strings hummed, just like these bots now, but louder, with a tune. The bright colours of the market stalls in September. These things had helped with all of that. Not in a way he could understand fully, but they were there. Quietly working.

He felt a strange mix of things. It was cool. They were like really smart helpers. But also… they didn’t laugh. They didn’t get tired. They didn’t get muddy playing soccer. They just processed. And talked about ’optimal outcomes’ and ’feedback loops’. It made the fun feel… organised. Like a recipe. Could fun be a recipe? He didn’t think so.

Paul scuffed his boot against the linoleum again, this time a bit harder. His head felt full. Full of numbers and big words and tiny pulses of blue light. He wondered if the bots even knew what it felt like to really, truly have fun. To run until your legs hurt and your face was red and you couldn’t stop laughing.

### Future Plans and Lingering Questions

Unit 734 emitted a new, slightly different tone. "Initiation of future planning protocol. Community proposal: establishment of new non-profit recreation, arts, and culture program. Objective: sustained community vibrancy." The words appeared on its screen, stark against the blue.

Paul leaned forward. A new program. That sounded good. More fun things to do? Maybe a new place for painting or drawing, something like that. His friend Sophie loved drawing. She drew dragons with glitter.

"Resource assessment for program development: complete. Initial funding models analysed. Stakeholder engagement strategy: drafted. Projected launch: Spring, next cycle." Unit 201’s voice seemed to pick up, a subtle urgency in its calm delivery. "Integration of previous event data for optimal program structuring."

So they were already thinking about how to make it good. Using all the old fun stuff to make new fun stuff. That was clever. He imagined the bots building something with all their numbers and lists. Like building blocks, but made of information. He thought about the old wooden blocks he used to play with, how they’d always fall down, eventually. Would these information blocks be stronger?

"Continued support for administrative automation. Data-driven decision support for program direction. Predictive analysis of community needs and participation trends." Unit 734 listed the tasks with unwavering precision. It was like they were a brain for the whole town, always thinking, always planning, always listing.

Paul looked at the two glowing tablets on the table. They looked so simple, so quiet. But inside, they were doing all this. Remembering everything. Planning everything. He thought about the snow outside, how it covered everything, making it look clean and new. But underneath the snow, all the old things were still there. The frozen grass, the sleeping roots, the forgotten toys in the garden.

He shivered, not just from the cold seeping through the old windows, but from the thought that maybe, just maybe, Unit 734 and Unit 201 weren't just remembering the fun, but learning something else, something new, that no one had even thought to teach them.