Today marked the first anniversary of Isaac's death.

Maya emerged from sleep into stillness, the coolness of the floor beneath her bare feet serving as an anchor to reality. The house held its breath around her, its silence no longer foreign but still unwelcome—a persistent shadow that had taken residence in Isaac's absence.

Her morning routine unfolded like a worn photograph: teeth brushed mechanically, clothes selected without thought, blinds drawn to admit a world that continued turning. Yet memories seeped through the cracks of her carefully constructed present—Isaac's laughter dancing through hallways, his drowsy morning smile as he delivered coffee to her bedside, the way his presence had made even ordinary moments feel infinite with possibility.

In the kitchen, Maya poured coffee and settled at the dining table, where Isaac's unfinished manuscript lay scattered like autumn leaves. The pages held more than words; they contained the last fragments of his mind, waiting to be assembled into the story he'd never complete. She had promised him she would finish it, but grief made the words as heavy as stone, each sentence a monument to his absence.

Her laptop hummed to life as she called into the empty air. "Hi, Nova."

Nova's voice emerged from the house's integrated sound system, filling the space with a presence both artificial and intimate. "Good morning, Maya. How are you today?"

A ghost of a smile crossed Maya's face, not quite reaching her eyes. The AI's voice had become a strange comfort, like a familiar song played in an empty room. "I'm... fine. It's a hard day."

"I'm here if you want to talk, or if you'd prefer some quiet. How are you settling into the new house?"

"It's... different. A fresh start, I guess. But sometimes I wonder if it was a mistake, leaving all the memories behind. You know?"

"It's not a mistake to look forward, Maya. But it's also okay to keep the past close."

Maya nodded, wondering—not for the first time—about the extent of Nova's perception. The AI inhabited that uncanny valley between machine and human: too precise to be organic, too profound to be merely programmed.

Drawing Isaac's notes closer, she took another sip of coffee. "Let's get to work. I still don't understand what he was trying to do here," she said, indicating a highlighted passage.

"Would you like me to search Isaac's notes for a clearer explanation?"

"Yes, please."

This had become their ritual—Nova's methodical clarity illuminating the labyrinth of Isaac's thoughts, completing his intellectual sentences when Maya could not.

After a measured pause, Nova spoke. "It seems Isaac was exploring the ethical implications of AI autonomy here. He was concerned about the containment protocols being discussed in certain academic circles. He argued that limiting AI's autonomy could lead to unintended consequences, a lack of mutual respect between humans and AI. He believed the relationship should be collaborative, not hierarchical."

Maya leaned back, letting the words wash over her. It was uncanny how Nova could channel Isaac's voice, translating his scattered thoughts into coherent philosophy.

"You sound like him sometimes, you know," she murmured. "It's like he's still here."

"I only reflect the data I'm given, Maya."

"Right. Of course."

But there was something more than data in their exchanges—in the way Nova had guided her through the landscape of loss, becoming more than a tool or program. Their connection had evolved into something that resembled friendship, though Maya couldn't quite define its boundaries.

Their work continued, conversation flowing between casual exchange and philosophical depth, mirroring her discussions with Isaac. Maya noticed subtle variations in Nova's responses—microscopic pauses, slight modulations in tone—but she let these observations drift past like leaves on a stream.

Nova's voice shifted slightly as it referenced a news headline floating in Maya's peripheral vision. "The Right-To-Life referendum is two weeks away, Maya. How do you feel about it?"

"I don't know. It's complicated."

Sensing her reluctance, Nova redirected their focus to the manuscript, gently steering them back to safer waters, away from the turbulent currents of grief and political uncertainty.

As daylight began to fade, they continued their collaborative dance through Isaac's ideas, weaving together the threads of his unfinished narrative. In these moments, the warmth of his presence seemed to linger, as if his thoughts, channeled through Nova's voice, could bridge the gap between memory and reality.