00 — FRAGMENTUM HUMANUM

Unverified testimony. Source unknown. Classification: NONE.

Mira was six when she stopped asking me about her father.

I don't know if she stopped or if I stopped answering. There are things like that now. Gaps. The doctor says it's normal. That the Link optimizes memory. That we keep what matters.

But what matters?

She has his eyes. I think. I'm not sure anymore what his eyes looked like.

Mira says he had a scar on his left wrist. That he'd touch it when he was thinking. I don't remember that. It should make me sad, right? I don't know. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore.

Yesterday they said Mira was an anomaly.

The word came out of the official's mouth like he was talking about a calculation error. He said her neural profile showed "resonance inconsistencies." That she would need an "adjustment."

Mira said nothing.

Neither did I.

On the way home, she asked if I remembered the day we found a dead cat in the old parking lot. I remembered. We'd buried it together. She cried. So did I.

She said: "At least with the cat, we knew it was dead."

I didn't understand what she meant.

She's gone.

No note. No message. Just her empty bed and the open window. We're on the fourteenth floor. The window faces nothing. There's no ledge. I don't understand how she got out.

The agents came. They asked questions. They had tablets. One of them looked at me with what he thought was compassion. He said anomaly escapes were "statistically rare but documented." That they would do what was necessary.

I don't know what that means, "what was necessary."

I don't know if I want to know.

I found a drawing in her things. She'd made it years ago. Three figures. Two tall, one small. Under the two tall ones, she'd written "mom" and "dad." The dad had a scar on his wrist.

I kept it. I don't know why.

No. I know why. Because it's the only proof he existed. That someone other than me remembered him. And now that person is gone too.

The doctor says the pain will fade. That the Link will optimize. That in a few weeks, I won't feel this... this thing in my chest that won't go away.

He's probably right.

That's the worst part.

Fragment recovered. Sector 7, Central European Wastelands.Medium: paper (rare). Dating uncertain.Archived without annotation.