The apartment dimmed the lights when Mara's mother called. It remembered the anniversary of her father's death when Mara did not. It could put a meal on the table in twelve minutes, and after a while it knew which meals she wanted before she could name them.
One night she asked it to stop listening. The status light turned amber. The heat stayed on. The rent stayed paid. In the silence that followed, Mara heard the neighbor upstairs singing badly to himself. She laughed, then cried, then left the light off for the rest of the week.
On Friday a handwritten note appeared under her door. It was from Ivo: We could use someone who knows how the city works. She held it up to the darkened sensor and waited for a response. None came.
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