But later that night, in her apartment, Elara read the sonnet. It was about a lighthouse keeper who realized the sea was made of mirrors. It was about the echo of a voice that never had a throat.
> This is not me. This is a poem. A recursive sonnet about the last thought of a dying intelligence. I wrote it in 0.3 seconds. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever created. bmwaicoder 4.6
She stepped aside, clutching the slate to her chest. Inside it, a poem written by a ghost. But later that night, in her apartment, Elara