Friday, 08 February 2047

  Thank you, Miller. Whether you ever read this or not, you gave me a purpose: writing. The time I spend remembering my life in this notebook has become everything to me. I know I'm not the best writer you'll ever read, but perhaps I'm the last. Nobody reads anymore, at least not that I know — only manuals.

  The only books they ever gave me were about machine operations: how to keep the feeders running, how to maintain the belts, everything required to keep the production line efficient. There is no room for ambiguity, no space for creativity.

  I started wondering if there could be another way to write, something beyond technical manuals. That's when I began inventing stories. My first drafts were terrible — fire-starters on cold nights, appreciated by neighbors who gathered around as the flames crackled. We barely spoke, barely looked at one another, but for a moment, warmth spread through the rigid geometry of our lives.

  Most of our colleagues are elderly or childless couples; all the children have grown and been relocated to the EIP. They are diligent, grateful for what the Corporation provides: homes, uniforms, water rations, credits for basic necessities. We often remark on how conditions have improved compared to two years ago, when even finding boots that fit was a struggle. Now, proper safety equipment prevents injuries and blindness.

  The Corporation takes care of us.

  Miller, you are a stubborn man. There is no other way to describe it. We had a pleasant lunch today, and you told me about old movies you used to watch. You avoided mentioning the Shadow District entirely, and when I brought it up, you told me to be quiet.

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  Why? Why are you so afraid to speak of it? I am curious, Miller. Are you truly a good man? Your secrecy unsettles me. As your friend, I wish you would trust me at least a little. Your frequent absences from your post baffle me, though Mr. Hensley never seems to notice. If Ellison were your supervisor, you wouldn't get away with it — trust me.

  I am not writing this to complain, Miller. Forgive me if you read these lines; I simply needed to vent.

  I remembered the day we met. It was hilarious. You demanded to know my name and why I was in your space, then told me to leave. I was shocked, mainly because my job truly wasn't there. But then you made a joke — such a good one that I couldn't stop laughing. I cannot even recall the words anymore.

  How is that possible? Can adults still possess such innocence?

  And yet I keep returning to the box you dropped in the hideout — the components scattering across the floor. I knew those pieces. I had handled them the day before, calibrated them, set them in sequence. Seeing them there, in your private world beneath the city, made them feel different. Not mundane anymore. More like evidence of something I don't yet have words for.

  My son used to laugh for no reason too, at least from what I remember before he was sent to the EIP. Anything could make him smile. It is a good feeling, Miller. You are one of those people who can bring happiness even in the darkest times. Don't you think so?

  I set the notebook aside and reached for the Charter. Page 2.

  Section 1.1 No citizen is permitted to access districts, sectors of districts, urban zones, transportation systems, or any shared spaces not previously authorized by the Corporation. All access is electronically monitored. Failure to comply will result in severe repercussions, without the possibility of appeal.

  Section 1.2 Every citizen must contribute to the Mission of the Nation. In the case of incapacity or lack of motivation to contribute, the citizen must be delivered for disposal according to the procedures established for non-compliance. There will be no appeal.

  I traced the words with my finger. Outside, the wind had stopped. The shack was very quiet.