The day after her surgery, she was remarkably lucid. She smiled when grandfather said he was going to help himself to more of the cafeteria’s General Tso’s chicken to support their diversity initiatives. And she complimented the lion’s head meatballs I made for her, even though they were flat and dry.

I asked her what kept her writing. Her pencil is so short now. One of the nurses asked me if grandmother was writing a novel, to which I could only say no, I didn’t think so, and really, I had no idea what she was writing. Could she have that much to say to Meng?

“It’s not only for Meng,” she said. She tapped her pencil against her chin. “I suppose it is for me, too.”

“Your memory?” I asked. I pictured her as Penelope, weaving her shroud each day, unraveling it each night to keep the suitors at bay. Grandmother was writing to keep the fog away, and once she allowed herself to finish, she would be lost.

She denied it, though, insisted it wasn’t to help her memory. “To make myself more palatable. To start forgiving myself.”

It’s made me rethink all this journaling that I’ve been doing. At first, I journaled for EMBRS, thinking it would help me form connections in the future. I guess I never really thought about just having this for myself. To help me reframe my story as something more palatable. One where I’m strong and independent and not a heartbroken recluse. One where I’m more like Meng and grandmother, capable of surviving so much.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” I said. “Not anymore. You left the pencils behind.”

“But what of all the lives and stories I betrayed?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. It reminded me of the articles Prof. Logan sent around, the big tech employees wondering what role they played in our fractured democracy, our polarized political body, and media, when they had believed they were regular people with a particular talent, something unique to offer.

“I don’t know about their stories,” I said. “But you made mine better than I could have ever asked for.”

Her eyes went soft for a moment, then faded into blankness. I held her hand for a bit longer. She idly traced the scar Meng’s words had left on my arm. I told her I would be back, that I had to speak to my professor, and she gave a confused nod.

After the fight with Louise, I had returned to EMBRS, hoping I could drown myself in code. Instead, I ended up digging through Prof. Logan’s internal documents. You can’t say he’s a total hypocrite—he even shares these kinds of sensitive investor business plans freely with the team. I was just never brave enough to look.