A soft swell from the corners of the ceiling, just warm enough to pass for sunlight. Pink—not rose, not blush, but the filtered hue of something that once aspired to coral. It lands on her closed eyelids like a reminder, not a command.
She doesn’t open her eyes right away. The bed has already begun adjusting—pressure softening at her shoulders, the air noticeably warmer than when she fell asleep. Not comforting. Just a signal that morning has been assigned.
“Good morning, Sonat. Your comfort baseline is at ninety-four percent. Shall I adjust the ambient audio?”
A pulse of gentle chords filters in from nowhere she can name. She says nothing, but sits up. The room waits, then lets the sound fade into a soft absence.
She stands without stretching. The robe is already warm on its hook by the doorway. She puts it on, fingers brushing past the seam where the fabric refuses to fray. No need to check herself in the mirror.
Aloe and clover fill the air, a scent softened to neutrality. She thinks, absently, that it’s different from yesterday. Sharper, maybe.
In the kitchen, breakfast waits. A white bowl of shining fruit, sliced into perfect cubes. Pale green, translucent orange, pink edging toward beige. She picks up a piece, tastes faint sugar, nothing else. It’s the same as always.
The window runs the full height of the wall, revealing a curve of Celloria's residential tier: pale towers, tiered walkways, muted garden plazas arranged for visibility, not access. Above it all, the sun glints off glass and sculpted polymer in just the right shade of warmth. Transit lines arc gently past on permanent paths of orbit.
Sonat finishes the fruit. Leaves the bowl where the apartment will fold it away to be cleaned. She ties the robe tighter, presses her thumb to the doorframe.
It opens without a sound.
The hallway is empty. It always is, this early in the cycle.
Sonat steps through without hesitation, the door closing behind her in absolute silence. The air out here is thinner, colder than in the apartment, but still comfortably within bounds. The floor has been recently buffed—she can see the faint blur of her reflection trailing behind her feet. There’s no reason to rush in Celloria.
The residential tier is organized around visibility. Balconies look inward, ringed with low safety rails and frosted with plants in curated asymmetry. Sound is absorbed rather than echoed. Lighting is diffuse. Her route loops down one level, past a communal lounge where no one ever sits, and into the pedestrian spine.
Along the wall, a set of recessed panels cycle through color-coded prompts.
YOU ARE EXACTLY WHERE YOU SHOULD BE
CELLORIA-8 | WALKWAY B | 06:13
TODAY’S COMFORT INDEX: 96.4%
She pauses for a moment by the viewport.
Beyond the glass, the garden plaza lies still. Rye-green grass, pathing stones embedded in spirals, synthetic shade structures that mimic coastal architecture. No movement. The sky beyond is backlit into soft morning—cloudless, sun high but not overhead. A white drone crosses slowly through the air, barely audible, trailing a thin contrail of mist that dissipates before it lands.
There is no one to be seen.
A soft tone chimes near her ear. Not a message. Just a proximity notice—she’s passed through the outer edge of her assigned zone. The sort of thing she’s allowed to do, as long as she returns.
Sonat walks on. Her robe hangs loosely against her knees. No one stops her, of course.
Down the corridor, a cleaning unit glides out from a wall recess and begins a pass over the tiles. It doesn’t acknowledge her, and it won’t unless her pathing interferes with its work.
She takes the left corridor off the spine, stepping onto the transit platform without pausing to check the schedule. The next shuttle will arrive when it always does.
The platform is long, polished, gently lit from beneath. s scroll across embedded glass panels overhead: pastel waves, transparent household goods, faces smiling in perfect symmetry. There is no sound but the low thrum of climate cycling and the occasional soft footfall of distant passengers she never quite sees.
Sonat stands near the platform edge, watching the darkened tunnel. The glass between her and the track reflects her only vaguely. The glare always edits things down: robe, face, posture. Colorless enough to forget.
Above her, one of the ad panels flickers.
Just a single frame, a hiccup. Not a full glitch—no static, no artifacting—just a flash of something… older. A logo. White serif on black. She doesn’t read it, but something behind her eyes does. There’s a sense of placement. A loop she half-remembers. The aftertaste of having once known what it meant.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
She blinks. The screen is normal again. A family seated around a recessed lounge pod, all of them laughing without movement.
Her wristband lights briefly—Delay: 00:47—and then goes dim.
Sonat doesn’t move. There’s no one to ask, no one to confirm what she saw. And nothing’s broken. She looks back at the tunnel, just as the shuttle arrives in perfect silence, doors already open.
She boards.
She blinks. The screen is normal again. A family seated around a recessed lounge pod, all of them laughing without movement.
Her wristband lights briefly—
Delay: 00:47
—then goes dim.
She boards.
Inside the shuttle, she takes her usual seat. Not assigned. Just preferred. Third row from the rear, window-facing, far enough from the doors to avoid the glide-path of boarding passengers. Her legs cross right over left. Hands folded, light against each other.
She looks down at her wrist again. Forty-seven seconds. It doesn’t feel late.
She tries to remember the last time the shuttle was delayed.
Nothing comes to mind.
Outside, the platform glides past. The windows don’t show much—just tinted reflections and the faint curve of Celloria’s upper district suspended above the central arc. Light adjusts automatically as the shuttle passes through shadows cast by the tower tiers.
She settles her gaze forward.
The shuttle hums, barely audible, and carries her onward.
The shuttle deposits her on Tier 3, South loop.
From here, the walk is short—past a stretch of low hedges, a shaded seating alcove no one uses, and a central atrium styled to resemble a naturally lit transit hub.
She takes the long route. Not for any reason.
Just past the curved glass directory, someone approaches.
He’s tall, mid-forties by his face, clothed in soft-fabric leisurewear with the sector’s matte green accents. The kind of presence designed to feel reliable. Not familiar—but familiar enough.
“Good morning,” he says. His voice is smooth. Just slightly delayed.
She nods back. Keeps walking.
After a few steps, she stops. The timing. Just slightly delayed.
She turns her head. The man is still walking, farther down the path, his gait precisely even. He passes a reflective panel. When his image flickers across it, the smile on his face remains—fixed. Too long.
He doesn’t turn again. Doesn’t glance back.
When she resumes walking, her pace is slower than before. Her pulse has not changed. The silence fills in behind her like liquid settling in a frame.
She doesn’t turn again. Doesn’t glance back.
At the next corridor junction, she checks her wristband.
The time flickers once before stabilizing. 06:42.
She doesn’t know what it flickered to. Just that it did. She lowers her arm, adjusts the cuff of her sleeve, and walks on.
The errand is nothing. Repetition with utility. A hydration tab cartridge, available at any of the tier dispensers. She takes the west route, lined with light-beam planters and scent diffusion vents that cycle subtly every thirty meters. Verbena, lavender, carnation.
The kiosk is recessed into the wall, marked by a pale halo of light and the soft whir of standby mode. As she approaches, the panel brightens.
SONAT CEYLAN – VERIFIED CURRENT NEED INDEX: NOMINAL DISPENSING: STANDARD REFILL (MINT-3.1)
A small hatch opens. The cartridge rests inside. Behind it, another object.
She pauses.
It’s not sealed. No label.
A small, square case—transparent shell, soft blue lining, and inside it, a shape. Irregular. Faintly golden.
She doesn’t recognize it. But she knows it isn’t supposed to be there.
The panel remains open. No error message. No acknowledgment. Just the quiet readiness of a task completed.
She reaches in. Takes both items. The cartridge fits neatly into her pocket. The case doesn’t.
She turns it once in her palm. It catches the light strangely—refracted, like a texture from somewhere else. Not glass. Not plastic. Not system-standard.
She waits for something to happen. Nothing does.
No alert pings. No voice checks in. No drone appears to collect the unscheduled delivery.
After a moment, she tucks the object into the sleeve of her robe, where the fabric folds loose at the wrist. The panel closes with a soft hiss.
She continues her morning walk.
Back on the platform, the lighting has changed. Warmer. Not visibly, not enough to name—but she feels it against her skin, like standing near a screen left on too long. The air has a slight mineral edge.
She doesn’t pause.
The shuttle arrives. She boards, selects her usual seat, crosses her legs the usual way. But this time, the seat is faintly sticky with humidity. Not damp, just cooled in a way the environmental system wouldn’t normally permit.
She shifts slightly. Doesn’t look directly at the others—three passengers, none familiar. Two of them flicker behind polarized privacy filters. The third watches a silent feed projected just above eye level: looping waves, cyan and white.
Her wristband gives a soft pulse.
NOTE: MOOD RESPONSE CALIBRATING SOURCE: ROUTE ENVIRONMENTAL INDEX EFFECTIVE ADJUSTMENT: -0.4° / AUDIO SHADE B / SCENT 12.3
She dismisses the prompt without reading the full diagnostic. It closes with a soft ripple.
At the next stop, she disembarks. The corridor glows faintly more orange than usual. Light panels overhead seem to hum.
By the time she reaches her building, the hallway outside her door smells like citrus—too much of it.
Her apartment recognizes her proximity and unlocks without prompting.
“Welcome home, Sonat,” says the room. “Your comfort baseline is at 91%. A recalibration is in progress.”
She steps inside.
The lights adjust as the door closes behind her. Cooler now, back to the mid-day palette she expects. The scent has flattened—mint, fabric softener, a hint of something chemical beneath.
She removes her robe, folds it with deliberate slowness, and places it in the laundry slot. The case from the kiosk slips free as she does, landing on the counter with a soft sound. Not glass. Still not plastic.
She pauses. Stares at it for a moment.
The shape inside catches the overhead light again, and this time it’s clearer: an irregular disc, pressed flat at one edge, with some kind of etched pattern—faint, almost biological. A seed, maybe. Or a fragment of something grown.
She doesn’t open it. She sets it down beside the sink, away from the sensor grid.
When she lifts her wrist to brush hair back from her face, the band lights again.
Comfort Deviation: 3.9% Baseline Drift Noted Recalibrating
She lowers her arm. Stares at the readout. Then, slowly, unclasps the watch and sets it on the counter beside the case.
Just a thought: maybe it needs to reset. Sometimes that happens—drift, misreading, loop bleed.
She rubs the mark it leaves on her skin. The room doesn’t react.
For the first time all day, there’s no response at all.