I remember it, or at least, I believe I do. The year was 1961, and the world was a different place, a place where the boundaries between the real and the surreal were as thin as the veil of a dream. The Wall, that monolithic symbol of division, was not just a wall of concrete and barbed wire. No, it was guarded by beings of steel and silicon, humanoid robots that stood sentinel, their cold, unblinking eyes watching over the divide.

The first time I saw them, I was with my grandfather. He took me close to the Wall, close enough to see the intricate patterns of circuits and wires that ran like veins beneath their metallic skin. "They are the guardians," he whispered, his voice heavy with a mix of awe and fear. "The guardians of a world that has lost its way."

The robots moved with a grace that belied their mechanical nature. They communicated in a language of beeps and hums, a symphony of electronic esoterica that only they could understand. Their purpose was clear, yet their origins were shrouded in mystery. Were they creations of the East or the West? Or perhaps they were remnants of an ancient civilization, awakened from a long slumber to stand guard over a world on the brink of self-destruction.

As the years went by, the memory became hazier, like a dream slipping away upon waking. Yet, the conviction remained. I would often find myself in heated debates with historians and scholars, my voice rising in frustration as I tried to convince them of what I had seen. They would laugh, dismiss my claims as the ramblings of a deluded mind. But I knew. I knew the truth.