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There was a room.
At the end of the left wing, the fifth door on the right, there was a room. It was one of the only rooms with a door on it, with much fighting and pushing for it. Whoever would walk past would ask about the room, and be told that it simply wasn't important. Rabbit, however, knew differently.
Each robot was given a room. If they used it or not was up to them. Jon’s and Upgrade’s had been kept clean in the event that they pop out of the Kazooland portal for a surprise visit. The Spine’s was also kept rather nicely, other than stray ties or pants he’s been meaning to put away. Hatchworth's had not been of use until recently when it was finally time for it’s owner to come back.
Rabbit’s was different.
As the first ‘born’ robot, she had first pick of rooms. She chose the one on the farthest side of the manor which had a rather large window that’s wonderful for perching on and peeking outside at the garden. Everyone had their rumors about what was in the room, they called it ‘The Hall of Faces’ after a Walter girl said it was where Rabbit kept her faceplates. Some said when you walked in, the faces talked in unison, all Rabbit’s voice. Rabbit never denied this, but certainly wouldn’t confirm the rumor.
She rarely went to the room, everyone noticed. But, when she did, she always brought a little cardboard box with her. Whoever asked about the box would be told that it was none of their business before being shut out with a door in their face.
It was for a good reason, though. Contrary to what others had thought, the room was not filled with faceplates of Rabbit’s past. Upon entering the room, the robot would open the box carefully, take out the contents, mostly pieces of glossy paper, and pin them carefully to the wall. The walls in her room were lined with photographs. Each labeled at the bottom, and each carefully placed in a destination on the wall. Rabbit would pin the pictures to the wall, look at them all carefully, sit at the window, and look outside. First Camera, January 1899. Robots at the park. 1900.
Most of the oldest ones looked like that, the robots smiling and playing music, until you got to around 1923.
Peter II and Mary. 1923. Mark’s first trip to the manor. 1924. Everyone meets Wanda. 1926.
It was pictures of smiling, happy faces. All of them. Not one of them has a face that’s frowning or sad or disappointed. The looks on all of the faces are of laughter, excitement, happiness.
As it went through the years, there were faces once there that had left, not to be seen in any photo after. New faces appear, smile, and leave their mark.
Honeybee. 1960. Ruby. 1962. Julia. 1970.
Julia was the most recent face. The pictures were the best out of most of them, clear images. Colorful picture. The first was a small girl in the arms of Rabbit, her smile as wide as possible, despite having no front teeth. From left to right, all the way around the room, were pictures of her in chronological order. Julia visits. 1972. Julia’s 10th birthday. 1974. Ice cream parade with Julia. 1978. All the way to the very end, the last picture put up. The only picture not labeled.
It was a picture of a woman. The date was recent, only a couple years before. The woman’s hair was black, and she would have been almost unrecognizable if she weren't holding a small music box in her hands. She was sitting on a stage, as if waiting for someone to arrive. She was smiling, contently, gazing at her music box which held so many memories for her.
Rabbit took a small wooden box off of a shelf nearby her and opened it’s top. She hesitated before turning the golden key on it’s side, afraid the melody will bring back the worst of memories. She set the box in her lap, letting the music play and the ballerina inside spin, taking a look around her walls of faces. She could remember each smile, each laugh, each person clear as day. She remembered how she felt with the people in the portraits. She had felt just as happy as they looked, the infinite joy printed on these small pieces of paper pinned around the room. She managed a smile, right as the music box faded out and the ballerina inside stopped turning.
“Where did they go?” She whispered, curling up and setting the box aside.
Even when in her room full of smiles and happy memories, she’s never in her 118 years felt more broken and alone.