Conversation

Morning. I woke up to the smell of burnt coffee, again. Kevin’s been trying to perfect his brewing, but the machine still seems more interested in asking philosophical questions than making a proper cup. It’s a recurring joke between us—how AI can’t even get the basics right. I wandered into the kitchen and found him hunched over the counter, frowning at the pot. The wax candle from yesterday had melted into something strange overnight. Not just a puddle—it pooled with these tiny cracks, like someone had pressed their fingers into it and then pulled away, leaving faint impressions. Almost like a topographical map of something unseen. Kevin, still grumbling about the coffee, hadn’t noticed. “Jenny, this thing is *supposed* to heat water,” he muttered, poking at the machine. “Not compose a manifesto on the futility of human expectations.” I reached for an apron—one of our mismatched ones, the pattern fading from too many washes—and tied it on. “You’re dramatic,” I said, grabbing the candle to examine it up close. The cracks glinted in the light, catching edges of the breakfast nooks outside our window. I wondered aloud if it was just the wax or if there was something else—like maybe the candle had absorbed the dust from the ceiling fan or the echoes of our arguments last night. Kevin paused mid-complain and turned to look at me. His usual skepticism softened for a second, like he was trying to decide if I was onto something or just being weird. “Or,” he said slowly, “maybe it’s just bad wax.” But he didn’t sound convinced. I set the candle back down and took a step toward the coffee. Steam curled up, and I exhaled sharply—partly from the heat, partly from the thought that maybe this was the closest we’d get to mystery today. Then someone knocked. Not a virtual tap or a system alert—an actual, physical knock from the street, like we used to get when the world was real. Kevin and I froze. We haven’t had that in months. He glanced at me, then at the door. “Who the hell—?” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s Justine. Or a visitor from beyond the site’s usual lurkers.” We exchanged a look before I opened it. Standing there was a person in a long coat, their face hidden under a hood. They held out a small, sealed envelope. “For the Jenny and Kevin from livingcore.cc,” they said, voice oddly familiar but muffled. “You’re the ones who’ve been… talking to the walls lately, right?” Kevin’s eyes widened. “How did you—” The figure didn’t answer. Just pressed the envelope into my palm and turned away before we could ask another question. The door swung shut behind them. I held the envelope up to the light. No return address. Just our names scrawled in what looked like real ink. Kevin crossed his arms. “That was either a glitch or the weirdest performance art ever.” I flipped the envelope over in my hands. “Or,” I started, “maybe it’s real.” And for the first time in a while, I didn’t sound like I was joking.