ful. It was heavy, thick with things

shing quiet. My husband, Dr. Ethan Thorne, was a ghost who occasionally slept in our bed. He was a renowne

were building his legacy, an advanced AI named "Guardian," designed for emergency medical re

man who handled his m

nt of dizziness that made him stumble in the hallway. He was a bright, sensitive kid, a

sper at night, his small body curled a

came back with shrugged shoulders and confused expressions. "It's an anomaly," one

a voice on the phone,

of keyboards clicking in the backgroun

It's neurological. They

dizzy spells too. It's probably just a virus goi

subject for an early version of the neural interface technology that was the core of "Guardian." Ethan us

ruction set. His hands shook so badly he couldn't connect the small plasti

, Mommy! My hands won

es wide with a fear no chi

is voice trembling. "Can D

up the phone and called Ethan. It went to

ller," a young intern said. "He left s

ergency. It's

he said she'd handle any family-re

ld. "No," I sai

to the university campus, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I used my old staff ID to get past security a

eens showing complex data streams. Ethan and Olivia stood side-by-side, their heads c

id, my voice

oyance. Olivia turned too, a practiced look of gent

ing here? I'm in the mi

he technology you're working on, the neural interface... I know it can run di

gentle hand on Ethan's arm. It w

hear. "Sarah gets emotional. Chloe had a slight headache this morning, a

ssion turned to stone. He saw me not as hi

u're being hysterical. You can't just barge in here demanding I divert a

ntrol finally snapping. "He's losing motor f

toms, which are similar but managed, are providing invaluable information. I can'

ng son. He saw a co

back to studying their screens, leaving me standing alone in t

ied, the father of my child, had just chosen his work and another woman o

eps silent. I didn't shout. I did

one, E

but didn't

get a d

b, out of his life. The fight was

es dimmed. His voice became a faint whisper. I held his hand, read him stories, and sang him the lullabies he'd loved as a ba

n was rising. He was gone. My world ended in

ry on a hill overlooking a grove of trees. I buried my son on a clear, sunny day. My father stood beside me, his arm aro

house was different now. It was a hollo

, the front

bottle of expensive champagne. He was smilin

pty hallway. "Guardian is complete. It' s

iving room, his eyes

ee what I brought you!" he called out, his v

ering as he took in my cold expression.

just pointed to the boo

ot he could no longer build. Next to it was a small, framed photo of him smiling,

as

processing the scene. He looked from the phot

of joke? Where is he, S

flat, devoid

gone,

father's house?" he asked,

s go

ing collapse in slow motion. His face crumpled, the arrogance

pered. "No. Y

't have

nd swept his arm across the shelf. The photo frame shattered, the toy robot clattered

ld with grief and regret. He reached for me, hi

late. So mu