To My Daughter, Before the Silence

Fiction

Elara. I found a cache of stationery in the lower archives. Paper and ink. The Stream is an efficient system. It removes the lag between thought and understanding. It eliminates the possibility of being misunderstood. It also eliminates the possibility of being alone. My hand is cramping. The nib of this pen is scratching the page. I have a blue stain on my index finger that will not wash off. This is a physical struggle. It is inefficient. I prefer the struggle. At 0800 tomorrow, I am having the link removed. The surgery is imprecise. There is a risk of permanent cognitive lag. I accept the risk. You will notice the silence immediately. You will feel a void in the neural network where my presence used to be. The collective will call it a loss. I call it a recovery. I am leaving this letter for you. It is a physical object. It exists in three dimensions. It cannot be synchronized, updated, or deleted by a server. The ink is smudging because I am pressing too hard. This page is uneven. The edges are frayed. I will be waiting in the physical world.