Her phone buzzed. A message from her younger sister, Zoe: Hey. Remember that old clock tower on Maple? They’re tearing it down tomorrow. Want to come? We used to go there after school.

On the walk home, she passed a 24-hour drugstore. On a whim, she bought a cheap, spiral-bound notebook and a glittery purple pen—the kind she would have loved in fifth grade. Back in her sterile apartment, she stood before the refrigerator, the laminated schedule in her hand.

Tonight, she sat at her minimalist desk, the city lights of Aethelburg glinting off her ergonomic keyboard. The hmm slot was blinking. She dutifully typed: Consider new brand of sparkling water.

"My hmm slot," Elara said, as if that explained everything.