“Standard,” Leo said. He always said standard.
He touched the small console by the door. A holographic receipt materialized in the air: waste pickup
The Collector stepped past him without permission, its long fingers twitching. It went straight to the closet, pressed a palm against the door, and whispered something that sounded like a lullaby in reverse. The green glow intensified, then solidified into a translucent, squirming bag—like a jellyfish made of memory. Inside, Leo could see fragments: a frozen frame of himself yelling at his mother, a blurry image of a blank sheet of music paper, a small, ugly knot of something dark that he knew was the time he laughed at a friend’s grief. “Standard,” Leo said
WASTE PICKUP - DAY 1,097 Total Mass: 2.4 kg Composition: Regret (72%), Unspoken Words (18%), Abandoned Hobby (10%) A holographic receipt materialized in the air: The
“You could take it out. Look at it. Play it once. The Waste only grows from neglect.”
“Payment,” it said.