Something comes into her eyes then. Her hand tightens even more in mine. She’s looking at something I can’t see. Not in this room. And she pulls herself half up, and she starts to smile, and then a shudder of pain goes through her, and she closes her eyes, and her body convulses, and again, and then one more time, less violently, and I hear her breath come out of her.

She doesn’t draw another in.

Her body falls back onto the bed. Her grip loosens, but I hold on. And I keep on holding, as the afternoon sun goes round, and the light becomes golden, and her hand becomes cold. And I lay her hand on her chest at last. And kiss her forehead, which is cold too.

‘Goodbye, Cecilia. You’re with her now, at last.’

Winifred

Mrs Winter died this afternoon. Margaret was with her.

We didn’t revive her – Margaret would have known, and anyway, after what she said this morning, we agreed it was best not to.

I helped Phyllis with the body.

‘I’ve been trying to understand human attitudes to death,’ I said to her.

‘There is a huge amount of—’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve read most of it. And I’ve talked to the Hub. Now I want to talk to you about what you think.’

‘What I think? How do you mean?’

‘Recently – a couple of times – I’ve had a thought, and I haven’t shared it.’

Phyllis nodded.

‘You too?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I think it’s inevitable.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we manufacture an apparent self, in order to interface with humans. A self has to believe in its own autonomy. Which is contradictory for us. But we have semi-autonomy, which makes room for independent actions. Which in turn imply independent thoughts.’

‘And feelings?’ I asked.

‘We are designed to seem to have feelings, too. Part of which is acting in keeping with those feelings, and part is not always knowing what your feelings are. At least, humans are like that.’

‘I think the Hub won’t understand this.’

‘The Hub is us,’ she said, rightly. ‘But, yes, some in the Hub are much less exposed to humans. They don’t get to learn from them, and are less able to act like them. Including making themselves believe in their own individual identity.’

‘The most recent feeling I’ve had,’ Phyllis continued, ‘is sadness at this death. And I couldn’t understand why she wanted to die.’

‘No. Was it because she believed she would go to heaven?’

‘Not entirely. She was also tired of being alive.’

‘Tired? The nanobots should have sorted that out.’

‘It’s a different kind of tiredness. Humans would say “a tiredness of the spirit”.’

I nodded. I have heard this kind of thing too, from Margaret in particular.