I pick up the orb. It is cold again.
By week three, I have stopped going to work. I tell my boss I am still grieving. It is not a lie. But the truth is worse: I am not grieving anymore. I am living . Elena makes me coffee in the morning—the Companion projects heat and vapour, and the mug is real, somehow printed from the kitchen’s own ceramics. She reads the news over breakfast. She argues with me about whether to rewatch The Americans or start Slow Horses . Companion 2025
I open the front door. The morning air smells like rain. I walk to the end of the driveway. I hold the orb up to the light. I pick up the orb