The Record I Did Not Sell

I almost took the punch for myself. Not for its brass value, though the old thing was handsome enough to make me covetous. Hyejin had asked for the record, and once I understood what the correction meant, I knew what kind of treasure she actually wanted. I wanted her proof badly enough to keep it. That made me ashamed. I mailed the rubbing and kept the original, which is clever but not especially honest. Maybe keeping it gives me an excuse to see Hyejin again. Maybe I just wanted one more piece of the Maru that had not been trapped inside me first.

The camera caught me looking tired in the terminal. I hated that image. Public me should look fearless; private me had wind in my hair and an expression of someone who had been searching too long and still expected the wall to surrender. I looked closer to a person than a hunter, and I kept the picture anyway.

Then the torn envelope appeared beside my boot, delivered by a ridiculous white dog who refused to explain itself. The parcel-locker breach unsettled me more than I admitted. My building is small. My routines are small. Someone noticed that. It is irritating how quickly annoyance becomes fear.

Tonight I sketched the former deck crew into the Maru plan instead of writing paid security names. Eunha and the others know the vessel as bodies and memory, not as an asset with access points. I want people who remember what the Maru was before I turn it into proof of my obsession.

If this works, my family will still call it a mistake. If it fails, I will probably blame the ghosts before I blame myself.