The hospice room had pale walls, one narrow window, and no personal history. It smelled of antiseptic, and the heart monitor kept the only steady sound in the room. After months spent defending my work, my apartment, and my place beside Julian, the anonymous room asked nothing of me.
Arthur placed a small camera on a tripod at the foot of my bed. His movements were precise. He checked its angle twice, straightened a cable that was already straight, then stood beside it with his jaw locked.
“Ready when you are, Evelyn.”
Oxygen hissed through the nasal cannula. I looked into the lens.
“This is a log file. It records the final statement of Athena's primary architect. I am leaving facts, dates, and verifiable files.”
For ten minutes, I gave dates and names. I described Athena's creation,
