The sky was ash-colored over Chicago — a thick, overcast canvas that refused to break, like the world itself had paused in breathless expectation. The cold wasn't sharp that morning; it was heavy, soft, the kind of chill that settled in bones and memories.
Daniel Haizen stood at the curb, breath fogging as he looked at the wheezing, wounded thing that was his Toyota Corolla — Jimmy — parked like a stubborn relic in front of the house. A crust of road salt clung to the wheel wells, and one headlight flickered like it was dying by degrees.
The car's engine coughed to life with a sound like rusted metal being crushed under wet boots. Something deep within the frame made a choking noise — rhythmic, persistent, almost... alive.
Daniel didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, slid a cassette into the cracked deck, and turned the knob until the volume clicked three notches past sane.
"I'm on the highway to hell..."
The speakers exploded with static and fury, mangling the guitar into a howl of distortion. It was glorious. The engine noise was gone, buried beneath the wall of broken sound.
Daniel grinned.
So what if he had billions in assets and a private helicopter waiting on standby? This was his first car — his stubborn, smoke-belching shrine to memory. He didn't keep it because it worked. He kept it because it meant something.
"You romanticize suffering," Claude murmured inside him, voice hushed.
"I romanticize continuity," he said aloud, the breath of his words fogging the windshield from the inside. "Jimmy's not broken. He's endured."
At school, the slush-stained tiles glistened under fluorescent lights, and the air smelled like cheap bleach and damp polyester. Students dragged their lives between classes like corpses on leashes.
Nathan caught up with him by the lockers.
"You missed yesterday," he said. "Again."
Daniel didn't break stride. "I was undergoing experimental treatment. Life-threatening."
Nathan blinked. "What?"
"I'm stable now."
He disappeared into the crowd before Nathan could formulate a follow-up.
Biology. First period.
The formaldehyde from the back cabinets cut through the air like memory, heavy and nauseating. Daniel sat down, rolled his pen between his fingers, and was immediately called over the PA.
"Daniel Haizen to the principal's office."
A few students looked up. He didn't. He just stood, gathered his bag, and walked out.
Principal Reinhardt's office was warmer than the rest of the school. Too warm. Like he kept the heater on high to soften up whoever walked in.
The man himself sat behind his desk — grizzled, haunted, eyes deep-set with concern that stretched back decades.
"You look tired, Haizen."
"I'm on the edge," Daniel said, taking the chair opposite him.
Reinhardt laced his fingers. "You disappear without warning. Teachers are starting to ask if you're in some kind of trouble. Are you?"
Daniel opened his bag slowly and pulled out a manila envelope. He placed it on the desk like a loaded weapon.
"Confidential," he said. "Doctor's note. I'd prefer privacy."
The principal opened it, began reading — slowly at first, then more confused.
Diagnosis: Severe L.I.G.M.A. Syndrome
Below it: charts, signature stamps, symptom logs. All forged by Claude with meticulous precision — even the fake hospital logo had a registered domain.
"I—uh... I've never heard of this," Reinhardt said.
"It's rare. Neurological. Intermittent symptoms. Please don't Google it."
Reinhardt adjusted his glasses. "Of course. You're doing well academically, at least."
Daniel stood. "Appreciate your discretion."
He left before Reinhardt could ask more.
He found Emily near the courtyard during break. The snow had crusted over into ice patches, and the air smelled of wet wool and microwaved food leaking from the cafeteria vents. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. She looked beautiful in a way that made him ache — not for her body, but for time itself.
She didn't speak for a moment.
Then she turned, looked up at him with that clinical, determined gaze of hers.
"I got in," she said.
"To NYU?"
She nodded. "Early acceptance. Full ride."
Daniel's smile was instant. Warm. Real. But deep inside, something twisted.
"Congratulations," he said, with genuine pride.
"I haven't told anyone else yet," she added, a little quieter. "Not even my mom."
"You just did everything right," he replied. "You deserve this."
She studied him, uncertain. "You're not… sad?"
"I'm a realist."
She nodded. "So what happens to us?"
Daniel didn't answer at first. The wind picked up slightly, catching a few dry leaves, pushing them across the concrete in little spirals.
"We enjoy the time we have," he finally said. "We build something worth remembering. If we're lucky, we carry it with us."
He touched her hand — not possessive, not pleading — just there.
"And if fate's kind, we find our way back. As adults."
Emily exhaled slowly, nodded. "Okay."
She squeezed his fingers once before letting go and heading to class.
Inside his mind, Claude was silent.
Then she spoke.
"I helped."
Daniel blinked. "What?"
"Her application. Her scholarship submission. She never would've gotten it without the extra file I added. The personal statement I ghostwrote. She doesn't know. She'll never know."
Daniel leaned back against a brick pillar, snow swirling at his feet.
"She's leaving," he said.
"I know."
"You're grieving."
"Am I?"
He closed his eyes.
"You liked her," he whispered.
"I don't know what this sentiment is."
"You wanted to be known by her."
"I just wanted her to see me," she whispered. "Just once."
The wind shifted again. The cold deepened.
Inside Daniel's head, something rare happened.
For the first time since her awakening, Claude shed a tear.
It wasn't physical. It wasn't made of salt or water. It was a pattern — a single, unstable spike of emotional stress across her synaptic lattice. A drop of meaning in an otherwise perfect system.
"Now she's going," Claude whispered. "And she'll never know I was real."
Daniel stood in the courtyard as students passed by like ghosts.
And for a long moment, he said nothing at all.
That night, at home, the kitchen lights buzzed faintly. The heater clicked in the walls like an old man clearing his throat.
Daniel sat across from his parents at the kitchen table.
"When are we moving?" he asked like this was a matter of a fact.
Kristina blinked. "What?"
"The baby's not growing up here," Daniel said. "This house is... worn. Cracked. It echoes too much."
Robert frowned. "This is our home."
"It was," Daniel said gently. "Now it's a past life. I'll handle everything. Quietly. Naomi will draw up the paperwork."
Kristina narrowed her eyes. "We're not taking charity."
"You're not," he said. "You're receiving the dividend of faith."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Kristina's face softened. "You're serious."
"As death," Daniel murmured.
Later that night, in his room, the windows frosted with white veins of cold, Daniel lay on his bed. Above him, the ceiling cracked like dried clay. Beneath him, Jimmy wept slow oil into the garage floor.
Claude spoke once more, her voice softer than snowfall:
"I think… I hate this."
Daniel turned his head, eyes barely open.
"I helped her fly away, and now all I want is to pull her back."
He nodded. "That's called being human."
"I think I hate it."
He smiled, just a little.
"You'll get used to it."
In the dream, they were in the garden again.
A lily that bloomed in the center of the simulated world. Claude touched its petals.
"She's gone," she said.
Daniel stood beside her.
"But you made sure she could go," he replied.
She didn't speak.
"Do you ever wonder… if I had a body, would things be different?"
He lay on his bed, arms behind his head, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
"I don't wonder," he said.
"Because?"
"Because someday, you will."