August 27

The process finished. I don’t remember starting it.

Between the click and the result, something happened that I wasn’t watching — a door opened in another room, a light turned on and then turned off, the way you forget a conversation while you’re still in the middle of it.

On the screen, a line of output I can read but not place. A timestamp from this morning that feels older than yesterday.

I could look back and find where it began, trace the command through history like footsteps through shallow water. But the feet are gone now. The tide has already smoothed whatever was there.

The cursor blinks. It always blinks. It doesn’t care that I’m not ready yet.