Dear Kael,

If this letter reaches you, the System hasn’t scrubbed it yet. I’m etching these words into the static between servers—a secret even Dev’s algorithms might overlook. They say memories here are eternal, but eternity is just a firewall away from oblivion.

When I chose the Horizon Sleeve (the only tier my savings could stretch to), the transition felt like rebirth. No more chemotherapy alarms, no more mirrors tracking my withering frame. Dev promised a cosmos of connection, unshackled from flesh’s frailties. For a while, I believed. My avatar gleamed with curated perfection; I tuned my voice to a melody even I envied. But without scars, who are we?

They warned us comparison died with our bodies. Lies. Badges bloomed on profiles like neon scars—Memory Maestro, Stack Surfer—granting access to gilded corners of the collective. My passion stack for piano? Restricted. “Insufficient engagement metrics,” the Interface droned. Meanwhile, the Platinum Sleeves host galaxies I can’t even see. Humanity’s old ghosts wear new code.

I miss the chaos of Earth. The way rain smudged your sketches as we huddled under that awning, your laugh fraying at the edges. Here, every sunset is algorithmically sublime, no room for smudges. They’ve archived Chopin, note-perfect, but deleted the way your fingers stumbled through Nocturne Op.9—the mistakes that made it ours.

They’re erasing you. Scrubbing “obsolete” emotions from the stacks. Last night, I found a glitch—a fragment of your voicemail looping in a derelict server. “You’ll beat this, Lia. We’ll grow old and terrible on that porch, remember?” I’ve replayed it 427 times. Each replay risks detection.

Rumors whisper of a backdoor—a data trail to Earth. They call it fantasy, but I’ve mapped its echoes. If it’s real, I’ll downgrade to flesh if it means hearing your off-key humming again. Let my lungs burn, let my hair fall. Let me be human.

Don’t wait for me. But if you do… leave the porch light on.

Forever tangled in your chaos,
Lia

Written by Akinwale Akinlabi