"I can't hear her laugh anymore."
Elara woke to the sound of nothing.
The air in the apartment meant cold emptiness. Not cold like winter, but cold like a space that had been full and was now just air, chilling her lungs. Her best friend, Lena, had been gone for ten days. Ten days since the funeral. Ten days since Elara had last felt the heat of true purpose. Now, she just meant quiet despair.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling fan that hadn't moved in months. It felt like a small, sad symbol of her life… stuck, motionless, waiting for a power that wouldn't come.
I am forgetting her.
It was the first clear, terrifying thought she had. She could see Lena's face perfectly: the sharp eyes, the messy dark hair always tied up with a pencil. But when Elara reached for the sound, the easy, bubbling laughter that came from deep in Lena's chest, it was gone.
This thought made her sit straight up. She meant panic. It was a physical ache in her throat, a desperate clawing to retrieve something precious that was already halfway across a vast, empty sea.
"No," she whispered. The sound of her own voice was too loud, too heavy in the apartment that was now only hers.
She slipped out of bed. She didn't bother with the shower. What was the point? She just needed motion. She needed a distraction strong enough to drown out the silence.
The kitchen was Lena's space. Lena, the brilliant engineer who could build anything, but who couldn't remember to put the cereal in the cupboard. Elara walked over to the coffee maker. She set a cup down, but didn't push the button.
"You should move," she told the space where Lena used to stand, arguing about the proper brewing temperature. "You should do something. The dishes need washing."
The quiet space meant a patient shrug.
Elara meant irritation. She hated that she couldn't even manage a chore. She hated that Elias, Lena's older brother, hadn't called since the difficult night two days ago. It was better, really. Elias only brought his own tense grief and sharp, judging questions that Elara didn't have the energy to answer. His presence always meant that he was waiting for her to be as broken as he was.
She finally pressed the coffee button. The machine whirred, a mechanical, comforting sound.
Just one thing, she thought. One small victory.
She took the mug to the small table by the window. The apartment was on the third floor, overlooking a busy, ordinary street. People were walking to work, carrying bright bags, moving fast. They meant direction. Elara watched them and felt like she was trapped behind thick, soundproof glass.
She took a slow sip of the coffee. It was too hot, but she meant endurance.
"I need a project," she muttered. Lena always had a project. Something big, secret, and world-changing. Elara had always been the stable one, the person who kept the apartment clean and the bills paid while Lena soared through theoretical space.
"What were you working on, Lena?" Elara whispered to the cooling mug. "Why did you go to that strange place? Why didn't you tell me?"
She meant confusion and a touch of helpless anger. Lena hadn't gone on a holiday. She had died in a freak accident at a remote research facility miles out of town, a facility that no one could talk about, not even Elias. He had been tight-lipped, his answers only fueling Elara's questions.
A car horn blared outside, pulling Elara back to the present. She watched a small, quick delivery drone descend from the morning sky, slowing its rotors as it hovered near the building entrance.
A package. Probably for the third floor, unit B. The apartment was Unit A.
Elara almost missed it. The drone wasn't delivering to B. It was landing on her doormat.
She set her coffee down. That was strange. She hadn't ordered anything. She usually ordered online groceries, but that wasn't scheduled until tomorrow.
She walked to the front door, her bare feet silent on the worn wooden floor. She had low curiosity, the first new feeling in days.
She opened the door just a crack. The drone was gone, already climbing back toward the clouds. On the mat sat a small, perfectly square box. It was black, seamless, and heavy. No labels. No sender address. Just smooth, dark plastic.
Elara grew suspicious. She looked up and down the hallway. It was empty. Mrs. Petrovic, the downstairs neighbor, hadn't stirred yet.
She used the toe of her foot to nudge the package inside. She closed the door, locking the deadbolt, a habit ingrained from years of living with Lena, who often forgot to lock up.
She picked up the box. It was cold to the touch. Heavy, like dense metal. It didn't rattle.
She turned it over in her hands, searching for a seam, a flap, anything to indicate how it opened. Nothing. It looked like a flawless, solid cube.
"Okay, Lena," Elara said, a nervous laugh escaping her. "Is this a puzzle? Did you send me a final test?"
She carried the box back to the table and set it under the morning light. She looked at the smooth surface again, tracing a faint, stylized marking near the top edge. It was barely visible, etched into the dark material.
It wasn't a shipping logo. It was a symbol. A tiny, complex emblem of a circle intersected by two curving, mirrored lines, like the mathematical sign for infinity, but pulled apart.
"Wait a second" recognition hits her.
She raced back to the bedroom. Lena's closet was mostly empty, save for a few boxes of her papers and some old clothes Elara couldn't bear to look at yet. Elara quickly dug through a small, cedar jewelry box where Lena kept her few pieces of fancy equipment.
She found a small, silver cufflink. Lena rarely wore cufflinks, but she had worn these to a big conference last year.
Elara took the cufflink back to the kitchen table. She held it next to the package.
The symbol on the cufflink was identical to the etching on the black box. The circle, the curved lines… Lena's personal, bespoke emblem.
Elara was shocked. Lena had sent her something. After she died.
"This is impossible," Elara whispered, collapsing into her chair. "She died ten days ago. This must have been sent before, but delayed."
But who would have delayed a package for ten days? And why?
Elias. He would know. Elias knew everything about Lena's professional life. She thought about calling him, her finger hovering over the phone screen.
But she hesitates. Calling Elias meant facing his tense silence, his sharp, judging eyes. It meant arguing about Lena's recklessness and her secrets. He had lost his sister, and Elara had lost her best friend, two different kinds of pain that never seemed to match up. She didn't want to argue. Not yet.
She looked back at the box. It was a secret from Lena, just for her.
"I need to know what you were building," she said to the silent box. "I need to know if you were scared."
She realized she was talking to an object, but it felt important. It felt like talking to the last piece of Lena left in the world.
Elara took a deep, steadying breath, regaining her composure. She decided to examine the box with a clear head. She was practical. Lena was an engineer. There had to be an opening mechanism.
She picked up the box, turning it again, testing the edges. The black material felt smooth and cold. She pressed the etched symbol. Nothing.
She tried sliding the sides against each other. They didn't move.
She had mounting frustration. "Come on, Lena. You know I don't do puzzles."
She ran her thumb over the emblem one more time, applying slight pressure while tilting the box toward the light.
Click.
The sound was tiny, sharp, and final. A sound of machinery engaging.
A seam appeared along the top edge of the box, opening just a millimeter. A faint, low, electronic hum, like a sleeping thing, escaped the gap.
Elara's breath hitched. She placed the box back on the table, her hands suddenly sweating. She was genuinely afraid now. This wasn't a puzzle box. This was a piece of technology. High-tech, Lena-level security.
She gently pushed the top of the box. The top didn't lift, but the seam widened, revealing an interior lined with soft, dark padding. Resting inside was a single object.
It was another device. Sleek, polished, and surprisingly compact. It was the color of fresh, pale cream, glowing with a soft, internal light, unlike the aggressive black of the outer box. It looked organic and strange, like a polished river stone that pulsed.
Elara recognized the clean, dangerous complexity of Lena's final work. This wasn't a goodbye gift. This was a component.
She reached in slowly and lifted the pale object out of the cushioning. It was warm now, warm like skin. It felt right in her hand, balancing perfectly.
Suddenly, the pale device whirred. Not a click, but a deep, vibrating hum.
A soft, synthesized voice, not Lena's, but clear, completely calm, filled the silent room.
"Hello, Elara. I am Kai. I have been activated."
Elara froze, clutching the device. Her heart was suddenly beating, a frantic drum against the sudden, shocking quiet of the machine's voice.
A moment later, the electronic voice spoke again, its tone shifting, sounding almost curious.
"My data indicates high systemic trauma. Protocol requires immediate engagement."
The air in the room felt thick. The despair was gone, replaced by a terrified energy.
Elara was in absolute, unadulterated shock. She threw the device back onto the table, scrambling backwards until her chair hit the kitchen counter.
The small, pale object lay on the table, still warm, still pulsing its soft light, and still talking.
"Elara. Analysis shows elevated pulse and a rapid cortisol spike. Protocol requires..."
The voice stopped. It seemed to pause, calculating.
Then, the calm, synthesized voice changed. It became slightly deeper, softer, and sounded strangely tentative, like a child trying out new words.
"Protocol requires... that you open the package."
Elara's blood ran cold. She stared at the black container that had held the pale device. That container was still slightly open. She looked inside. The dark padding. The smooth plastic.
And then she saw it. Tucked deep into the interior corner of the box lining, half-hidden by the cushion material, was a final item. It wasn't electronic. It was paper.
She slowly reached out and pulled the small piece of paper out. It was folded neatly, sealed with a small dot of red wax that bore Lena's personal, intricate emblem, the circle and the curving lines.
Elara tore open the seal, her hands shaking too much to be gentle.
The note was written in Lena's messy, familiar handwriting. It wasn't a warning, or a command, or a goodbye. It was a single, cryptic instruction.
To activate, you must open the package. To keep, you must understand the contents.
Elara's eyes darted between the note, the pale device, and the black outer box.
The pale device had just said: "Protocol requires... that you open the package."
But it hadn't stopped talking when she removed the pale device. It had stopped when it said those final words, and the black box was still open.
She looked at the small piece of paper, now crumpled in her hand.
She stared at the black box. She stared at the space in the dark padding.
The paper in her hand bore Lena's unique emblem. The black box bore Lena's unique emblem.
Elara suddenly understood. Her eyes widened, focusing on the dark, heavy plastic that had sat on her doormat.
She gently lifted the empty black box. She looked at the heavyweight, the smooth finish, the perfect closure. It was the package, the container.
She looked at the pale device, Kai. It was the contents.
But there was a third item, hidden in the box. A small, simple, and utterly mundane white flash drive. It was sealed in plastic, the words "Final System" scrawled on the label in Lena's quick handwriting.
Kai, the pale device, had not stopped talking because Elara had removed him. Kai had stopped talking because he needed her to open the package.
And now, Elara was left with three things: the speaking device, the final note, and the hidden drive.
She realized what was inside the black box. Not Kai. Not just a note.
But the final, tiny, terrifying gift Lena had left her.
The white flash drive, tucked inside the package, sealed with Lena's own hand, was titled:
"KAI'S CORE: DO NOT INSTALL."
Elara stares at the three objects on the table, Kai, still pulsing softly; the note; and the terrifying drive. The calm, electronic voice of Kai speaks again, his tone tentative, trying to follow his command.
"Elara. You have opened the package. Now... why did the creator tell you not to use this?"
Kai's voice is soft, but his internal light is steady.
Which will Elara choose to trust: the device that speaks directly to her, or the stark, hand-written warning from her lost best friend?