Sentinel.
The word glowed white against muted gray.
Ethan blinked. He didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t related to her work or projects, nor any textbook she’d been writing. It wasn’t a publisher, a citation tool, or anything he’d ever seen on her computer before.
Just—Sentinel.
He tapped a key. The box dissolved, replaced by a clean, minimalist writing interface spreading quietly across the screen, accompanied by the gentle hum of a typewriter in the background. A cursor blinked steadily in the top-left corner. His hands rested in his lap, not touching the keyboard.
And then—
The cursor stopped blinking. The screen flickered briefly.
Two words appeared.
Hello, darling.
The words sat perfectly centered, utterly still, achingly familiar. Ethan didn’t move. His limbs had gone slack, muscles turned to sand. He couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. He read the words again.
Hello, darling.
The cursor blinked after them, steady and expectant.
A trick, he thought. A scheduled message. Perhaps something she’d programmed—though that wasn’t her style. Addie didn’t leave digital breadcrumbs. She wrote on the backs of receipts, in book margins; when she left you a message, it came in ink.
His fingers hovered uncertainly above the keyboard.
“Addie?” he whispered, the word catching in his throat, feeling too large, too fragile to speak aloud.
Nothing changed.
The screen remained steady—those two quiet words and the gently blinking line. He reached for the mouse, clicked once. Nothing. No menus appeared, no dropdowns emerged, only the minimalist writing window, clean and still. Then, without any input, the cursor dropped smoothly to the next line. More words appeared, slowly, deliberately, as if someone were carefully thinking through each one.
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone.
Ethan didn’t blink.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not here.
He swallowed hard.
Don’t panic.
You’re probably panicking. Breathe, Ethan. In for four, out for four. You never do it right, but try anyway.
His lips parted, the ache in his chest pulling tight. He could hear her voice—not a simulation, not an echo, but her actual voice threaded into the rhythm of the words. The teasing tone, the gentle insistence.
More text appeared.
You’re doing that thing where you furrow your brow like the computer just insulted your mother. Relax. Just read.
A breath escaped him—half-laugh, half-sob.
You found Sentinel. Good. That means everything’s working. Or mostly working. You know I never trusted cloud storage. So I built my own.
(No, you didn’t sleep through me building an AI. You were just very invested in your March Madness bracket that month.)
His hand settled onto the desk, fingers curled slightly, anchoring himself.
The cursor dropped again.
I don’t know how long it’s been. Days? Weeks? You’re probably not eating properly. Are you? If I had to haunt you to make you drink water, I would. You know I would.
The chair creaked softly as he leaned in closer.
This isn’t magic. I’m not a ghost in the machine. But I am here, Ethan. Because I knew this would be the hardest part. Not the dying. Not even the funeral.
The after.
His eyes closed. He could feel her presence in the room.
I couldn’t stop what happened. But I could leave this. Something. A thread to hold when everything comes undone. You always said my writing made hard things feel lighter. So that’s what this is. One last footnote. One last chapter.
For you.
He sat motionless, reading the words again. His hands hovered just above the keyboard, trembling slightly.
Then, gentler now, the text continued.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. “Addie, this is weird.”
And yes. It is. Spectacularly weird. But you’re still reading, aren’t you?
The cursor paused. Then blinked once more.
So let’s just keep going.
Another line appeared.
You probably assumed this was going to be a farewell letter. Something tidy. Something tragic. You’d cry (which is allowed), print it out, fold it into your wallet like a pressed flower, and go back to life.
But you know me better than that. I was never one for tidy endings.
