She tidies the kitchen and retreats to his study.

The early spring sun of Los Angeles is mellow; jacaranda buds sway in silence, hidden among the verdant leaves.

Light and shadow dance across the black walnut desk—his usual sanctuary.

Entanced by the leafy silhouettes dancing on the cream-colored paper, she reaches out, her fingertip grazing a corner.

She moves her hand to reveal the words: Context rot.

She frowns. Picking up his fountain pen, she lets the nib hover. A bead of dark ink gathers, trembling at the precipice.

The moment it touches the paper, it bleeds along the fibers like a delicate, dark neural network.

She begins to scribble over the Anthropic 2025 paper he’d left half-read.

Not quite appeased, she draws a tiny stick-figure of Dario Amodei and a bonfire beneath to roast him.

"Hmph."

Beside the words Context rot, she adds: Lack of structure.

Her mind wanders again. She sketches a few jacaranda blossoms before leaning her face against the desk to watch the sky. Fragments of sunlight filter through the gaps, painting her skin.

A line from a Shakespearean sonnet drifts back from a half-forgotten high school lesson, though the details slip away.

She murmurs: "Summer breeze? Summer thee?"

With a sigh, she pouts, tucking the heavy fountain pen between her nose and lip.

She drifts, suspended in a daze, her breath filled with the faint chemical scent of ink and the lingering woody notes of his cologne.

In the shadowed stillness of the study, with only the shifting play of light and dark upon her face, she slowly closes her eyes.