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.

Let me tell you about the postman. Cypress-tall, chestnut-haired, pale, for he spent most mornings of his life delivering to the underworld, where no sunray reaches.