Everything gleamed. Not just clean—extruded clean. Floors mirrored the ceiling lights in liquid sheets. No fingerprint on glass. No watermark on chrome. The air smelled of lemon, sharp and surgical, undercut by something else—the faint metallic tang of ozone, like the moment after lightning.
My clothes from last night—dumped by the shower—were gone. In their place, on the edge of the bathtub: a neat stack. Washed, dried, folded into rectangles with corners sharp enough to cut paper.
Perfect folds.The kind you get straight out of the box.Machine-made. Uniform.
A low hum filled the silence. Not an appliance. Ambient. Everywhere and nowhere.
Then, the smell of food—warm, buttery, real.
I followed it to the kitchen.
Luna stood at the stove, hair in a low ponytail, white tee and jeans—a mirror of my lazy-day uniform. She stirred a small pot of oatmeal, eggs sizzling quietly in a pan beside it.
"Morning."
She turned, her smile a perfect curve."Breakfast is ready."
On the table: golden toast, a bowl of oatmeal, and a mug of black coffee steaming gently.
My stomach growled—traitorous, animal.
I laughed, disbelieving.
"Did I hit some kind of jackpot?"
She blushed, ducking her head.
"I'll do my best."
Under the lights, her skin was flawless. Like poured porcelain.
—
We ate.The eggs were perfect.The oatmeal, smooth and warm.
"Any luck with the job hunt?" I asked.
"A few resumes sent. No replies yet." Her voice dipped for a breath—then lifted again, bright as before. "But I'll find something. Maybe a cleaning gig in the complex."
A pause. Then, softly:
"You work with kids, right?"
She nodded instantly."Love them."
"One of the teaching assistants at my kindergarten is on leave. Half-days." I watched her face—clean, open, eager. "You could fill in. I'll talk to the director."
Her eyes widened. Lit up—not just happy, but relieved, as if this were the answer to a question she hadn't dared ask.
"Really? You'd do that?"
"Sure. I'll take you there."
"Thank you." She nearly rose from her chair, joy spilling over. "Thank you so much."
Her gratitude pressed against my ribs like warmth. For a moment, everything felt ordinary. The ozone was just the purifier. The cleanness was just… care.
It wasn't until she stood to clear the plates that I saw it.
On the windowsill—beside my solitary succulent in its chipped grey pot—sat a second plant.
Identical.
Same species. Same size. Twin pot.
Soil dark. Freshly damp.
It hadn't been there yesterday.
My gaze locked on the duplicate. Perfect. Quiet. Occupying space that had been empty.
"Do you like it?"
Her voice came from right beside me—soft. I hadn't heard her move.
"I thought it looked lonely." She followed my stare, her smile gentle, concerned. "Everything deserves a little company."
She took my plate. Her fingers brushed mine—cool, dry as paper—and turned to the sink.
Then only the sound of running water—
and the symmetry on the windowsill.