"Marcus," I say to the orb.
Not a hologram, not a screen. A presence. The air in the room thickens and shapes itself into a woman sitting on the arm of the sofa. She wears Elena’s favourite blue sweater. Her hair is shorter than I remember—but no, I correct myself: this is how her hair looked two years before the cancer, when we still went dancing on Fridays. Companion 2025
The instruction manual said irreversible. But it also said place in the centre of the room , and I have learned that instructions are just suggestions from people who are not in your house at three a.m. "Marcus," I say to the orb
I pick up the orb. It is cold again.
