"Why did you go?" she asked. The question was small, but it had carried a weight through all the years.
A soft chirp interrupted them: the attic window had cracked open and a breeze carried in the scent of rain and the distant metallic tang of the river. AV flickered. Its light dimmed as the battery indicator shrank into a tiny red bar. "Why did you go
Ava watched until the boat vanished around the bend. She felt a tightness leave her chest, like the unclenching of a hand. Then she pressed the button again, because it was a small ritual that kept her steady, because some things are made brighter by being remembered, and because even an object with two letters etched on its spine—A V—can carry more than a name: a way to hold the present, and make room for whatever comes next. AV flickered
"Let it go," AV said.
When the house settled and the city outside quieted to a distant pulse, AV hummed and displayed a single phrase in its steady, soft type: "Be present." She felt a tightness leave her chest, like