His browser was clean. His history was wiped. But as she typed ‘b-u-s,’ the autofill suggested:

He unplugged the three external hard drives. He put them in a canvas bag. Tomorrow, on his way to meet Maya, he would drop them at the electronics recycling depot.

His collection wasn't history. It was a cage.

Leo’s chest loosened. He looked back at the screen.

Then she needed to use his computer to look up a bus schedule.

And with that, the digital mausoleum of his twenties began to crumble.

92%. 95%. 98%.