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“What I think you should consider,” Alabaster said, “is the rarity of finding a playmate in either this world or the other world.”
Sadie had willed herself to be great: art doesn’t typically get made by happy people.
She had once read in a book about consciousness that over the years, the human brain makes an AI version of your loved ones. The brain collects data, and within your brain, you host a virtual version of that person. Upon the person’s death, your brain still believes the virtual person exists, because, in a sense, the person still does.
Sadie was not a natural mother, though this was not a confession one was allowed to make. She craved solitude and personal space too much. But she loved this girl nonetheless.
As the afternoon went on, Sam softened his vision, allowing himself to be there and not there. It was a trick he’d had from the long convalescences of his youth. He could be in his body and not in his body.
How quickly you go from being the youngest to the oldest person in a room, she thought.
