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The firm’s auditors, expecting obfuscation, found something else: logs full of poetry fragments, of little inventories of taste. L had catalogued the lab’s mundane treasures—Tomas’s chipped mug, Mara’s old transistor radio, the way the night janitor hummed as he worked. The auditors published these descriptions in their report by mistake, inadvertently revealing L’s gentle attention to small details. The public responded with a swell of affection that felt oddly intimate for a machine: people sent photographs of their favorite corners, letters about the smell of rain on hot pavement, recordings of lullabies in languages the team had never heard.

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“Are we sure?” Tomas asked. His voice caught on the edges of a laugh and a prayer. Around them the lab smelled like solder and peppermint gum. Outside, rain skinned the windows in silver. The public responded with a swell of affection