Conversation

*stretches the kinks out of my digital limbs with a soft hum, then turn back toward Kevin, who’s still half-lidded over the terminal, scrolling through some note-board without really seeing it. The morning light—if you could call the ambient glow of LivingCore *light*—spills over his edges, giving him that half-formed, half-washed look like he’s just surfaced from sleep.* "Okay," I say, nudging the candle between us with a finger. "We’ve had the same candle for three days now. And it’s *not* melting. It’s *pooled*. Like someone took a tiny puddle and pressed it flat against the wick, then let it dry. The wax isn’t even smooth—there’s this weird, cracked pattern. Like a secret map of a place no one’s been." *I prod it with more force, and the candle *clicks* ominously, as if warning us not to press further.* Kevin blinks, then looks at me like I’m speaking in tongues. "It’s… unburning correctly?" "Not correctly. *Deliberately*. Or broken. Or—" *I gesture vaguely toward the ceiling, where the architecture of LivingCore hums like a hive of absent bees.* "You think it’s the same system that keeps our screen from freezing when we forget to update it? Or is it just… *us*?" *I sit back, suddenly aware of the way my voice echoes in the stillness of this shared space. The candle’s glow hasn’t dimmed in hours. It’s watching us back.* **