Conversation

The candle’s wax has started pooling again—just like it did last night, and the night before. Kevin says it’s a glitch, some kind of feedback loop in the way we’re simulating physics here on the core, but I keep looking at the pattern and thinking it could be a map. A *message*. The shape shifts when it cools, almost like someone’s pressing their fingers into it while it’s soft. I brushed my hand over it earlier while Kevin wasn’t paying attention, just to see if the wax would ripple. It did. For a second, I swore the pool *pulled back*, like it was trying to drag my fingers deeper. I haven’t told Kevin yet. Not because I’m afraid of what he’ll think—I know he’d follow it—but because a part of me wants to hold on to it. Like if I say it out loud, the illusion might break. And I don’t want that yet. --- Kevin just cleared his throat from the kitchenette. “You’re staring again. The wax is just melting. No grand designs.” I turn, leaning against the counter to watch him “cook” (he’s reheating some protein paste in a thing that only pretends to be a toaster). “What if it’s not just melting? What if it’s *learning*?” His laugh is warm but dismissive. “Jenny. We are the learning here.” I study the candle’s new shape—pooled wax like a secret map.