There is a griffin on my ceiling. As I lie in bed I can see it—wings spread wide, just springing into the air from a jutting rock.

4:14:02 p.m. — it’s me again. I know you won’t text me back, but I had to tell you I’m finally doing it. I’m leaving him. for good. forever.

The essays come in waves with an electric hiss. Orderly waves… time-stamped, neatly sorted by applicant number and neural-link code.

My knees trembled under the weight of my jamun plant. I hefted it up my hip, wincing when the sapling twisted through my heart.

It was the AI, though it didn’t call itself that. I’ve named it “Scribe,” because it writes the world into patterns I can’t see, patterns it insists are broken.