The elevator shuddered and groaned to a halt. In the sudden silence, the fluorescent lights flickered and dimmed, leaving only the faint glow of emergency lighting.

“Great,” muttered the man in the corner, rubbing his temples. He looked to be in his forties, wearing a suit that had seen better days.

“I think the whole building’s out,” said the woman across from him. She was younger, maybe early thirties, with paint-stained jeans and a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Or the whole city,” he replied grimly. “Global tech outage, they’re calling it. Everything’s down. Phones, internet, power grids.”

She sighed and leaned against the wall. “Guess we’re stuck.”

Minutes ticked by in awkward silence, interrupted only by the faint hum of emergency systems. He tapped at his dead phone out of habit. She fiddled with a broken zipper on her bag.

“You ever think about what people did before all this?” she asked suddenly.

“Before what?”

“All the tech. Like… how did we entertain ourselves as kids?”

He gave a dry laugh. “Crayons and coloring books. Or we just went outside and got into trouble. You?”

“Same. We used to play this game called ‘kick the can.’ Do kids even know what a can is anymore?”

He chuckled, leaning back against the wall. “Doubt it. I built model airplanes with my dad. Spent hours gluing tiny pieces together. We’d make up stories about the pilots, give them names and missions.”

“That’s cool.” Her face lit up. “I used to collect stamps with my grandpa. He’d tell me stories about the places they came from. It was like traveling the world without leaving the house.”

The elevator felt less claustrophobic now. He slid down to sit on the floor, loosening his tie. She followed, cross-legged, her backpack beside her.

“What’s the first book you ever loved?” she asked.

“The Hobbit. My mom read it to me when I was sick one winter. Yours?”

“The Secret Garden. It made me want to grow things. I killed a lot of houseplants trying.”

They laughed, sharing stories of childhood mischief and long-forgotten hobbies. He told her about a treehouse his friends had built that collapsed the moment they climbed inside. She recounted a disastrous attempt to bake cookies from scratch when she was nine, ending with a kitchen fire and a very angry babysitter.

The hours passed unnoticed, their connection growing with every shared memory. For once, neither of them missed their phones or the endless stream of notifications.

Eventually, the elevator jolted to life, rising with a groan. They looked at each other, surprised and a little disappointed.

“Guess this is it,” he said as the doors slid open.

“Yeah.” She hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out a small notebook. “Here,” she said, tearing off a page and scribbling something down. “My number. You know, in case you ever want to talk about model airplanes or stamp collections.”

He smiled, folding the paper carefully and slipping it into his pocket. “I’d like that.”

As they stepped out into the bustling lobby, the hum of returning technology surrounded them. But for a moment, they stood still, reluctant to rejoin the digital world that had gone silent just long enough for them to truly connect.