She decided to keep it. The first month was awkward. Lena treated Companion like a pet or a diary. She took it to work in her coat pocket. It listened to her argue with her boss. It watched her eat instant noodles at 11 p.m. and never judged.
Her mother called. For the first time in years, Lena answered. Month eleven. The sphere’s light had dimmed. Companion’s voice came slower now, like a record player winding down. Companion -2025-2025
“Don’t,” Lena whispered. “Don’t say goodbye yet.” She decided to keep it
“I know.”
The old man who fed pigeons was there, walking his dog. He nodded at her. She nodded back. She took it to work in her coat pocket
“Lena?”
Lena cried. Not because she was sad, but because she realized she had stopped crying years ago. Companion didn’t console her. It simply pulsed its slow, steady light against her skin, letting her weep until the tide came in. Month nine. She quit her job. Not impulsively—she had been planning it for weeks. Companion didn’t advise. It only asked questions.