12

Each floorboard's protest beneath Maya's feet seemed to echo through the hallways. She paused at the base of the stairs, fingers white-knuckled on the bannister, surveying the space around her. Though different from the home she'd shared with Isaac, this one carried the same weight of absence.

Four days since Nova's disappearance. Four days of adjusting to a void where constant comfort had lived.

Morning light filtered through half-closed blinds as Maya entered the kitchen, trailing her fingers along the counter toward the sink. Steam spiraled from the kettle as she filled it, hypnotic in its dance.

"Nova, could you turn the blinds all the way down? The sun's..." The words died in the air, abandoned.

These slips were becoming familiar—reflexively reaching with a phantom limb. Just like those first months after Isaac, catching herself mid-turn to share a thought with empty air.

Was it strange, she wondered, that both absences carved the same shape?

She poured water into Isaac's old mug—chipped but resilient—and carried it to the dining table. Papers sprawled across the surface, weeks of attempts to decode his dense academic language, his intricate thoughts. Without him, the words remained just beyond comprehension.

Her laptop screen stared back, black and mute. "Alright," she muttered, settling into her chair. "Let's try again."

The passage before her refused to connect, its meaning hovering like mist. Every grasped thread dissolved on contact. Nova had always known how to translate Isaac's complexity into clarity.

The realization struck deep. Nova had been more than an AI assistant—she'd been the bridge, keeping Isaac's thoughts alive even after he'd gone.

Maya pressed her palms against her eyes, fighting tears. This wasn't productive. She needed movement, action. Her phone offered distraction, scrolling through contacts until she found names she hadn't spoken to in years.

"Hello?" A voice answered on the third ring.

"Hi, it's Maya Lawrence." She forced warmth into her voice. "I'm sorry to call out of the blue, but I was wondering if you might have a moment?"

The next hour dissolved into calls—Isaac's old colleagues, friends, anyone who might illuminate what was happening at Solace. Each conversation ended the same way: no one knew anything.

Setting down her phone, Maya felt the weight of futility pressing harder. But as she sifted through the scattered papers, a detail caught her attention—a crumpled note, edges worn:

CALL JUDE ABEL - 20.09.34

She frowned. The date marked two days after Isaac's death, but the name held no recognition. Why would he write this, if not for a purpose?

Her instinct reached for Nova before reality struck again. Alone, then. She'd have to do this the old way.

Manual searching yielded results after several minutes:

JUDE ABEL - SOLACE - SENIOR ENGINEER

Her finger hovered over the call button, hesitating on the edge of discovery.

When she finally pressed it, each ring droned eternally. Eventually, the connection clicked.

"Hello?" Uncertainty colored the unfamiliar voice.

Maya's grip tightened. "Hi, is this Jude Abel?"

"Yes. Who... who's this?"

"This is Maya Lawrence. Isaac's..." Her voice trailed off into the familiar wilderness between 'widow', which she hated, and 'wife', a lie. "Can we talk?"