When the tears come, hot and fast and unexpected, it’s easy, somehow, to forget that we decided to stop protecting each other, that Dad and I were never close at all.

Mama was the one I loved—the one who loved me—and—

Mama killed herself.

I’m sure; I’m sure, even though there’s never been any official evidence. She was a complex prism of a woman working her whole life to crush this paper doll vision people had of her. And she mostly failed. This harsh reality, plus chemical imbalances, stressors, genetic vulnerability, and so, so much more—they are just some of the billions of facets of my mother they never saw. That’s what my Stökéwood memories imply—that’s what I had to convince myself, in order to move on.

The machine in the corner moves then—rattles forward—and I jump away, tasting blood. It’s more than a machine. It’s got legs, two jointed hunks of plastic. It’s got a light panel for a face, and two eyes shaped in the emoji-approximation of a friendly smile. It’s … a Clouded Cage–branded robot. One of those boxy things I’ve seen on the internet, produced by an arm of Teddy’s sprawling tech company. A cousin of the security mannequin in the yard.

“Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle,” Tai says under her breath, as the robot’s legs grind and stomp toward us, and I wipe my wet face, hard, before Tai can see.

It takes me a minute to notice that the robot holds an origami box made of notepaper in its hands.

“For you,” the robot says, bowing.

Its voice is honeyed and familiar somehow, not the expected graveled electronica. Feminine. So it’s a she, I think, a cold finger tracing my spine.

“Mina?” I ask.

Hearts fly across her panel in greeting as I take the box from her. The paper feels familiar between my fingers. It’s grained with nubby flecks of real lavender, the same kind Mama used to use.

“Should I … open it?” I ask, stunned into speaking my thoughts.

“Holy fuck,” Tai whispers, dropping onto the bed. “Isn’t that Mama’s favorite paper? What if it’s from her? What if—?”

“It’s not,” I reply curtly, bitter metal on my tongue.

I sit on the edge of the bed, next to Tai, and carefully undo the folds in the paper, remembering how to refold them as best I can. My fingertips leave imprints on the tissue-thin sheet. My breath catches when I see Dad’s spidery script—

And the July date, the week before his death in August.