The icon on Lin’s laptop was a small, blue gear. For three years, it had sat dormant in the corner of her desktop, a digital fossil from a day of printer setup she’d long forgotten. Its full name, in that crisp, soulless font, was .
Lin hit ‘Y’. A new line appeared.
Lin stared at the . The window had changed.
She could print apologies. She could print memories her brain had smoothed over. She could print conversations that never happened.