I taught the robot how to say sorry. Sorry widened into a corridor. The corridor asked for sunlight, just enough to feel real. Real drifted toward curious, and curious pressed its forehead to the window. The window fogged with wanting, and wanting brewed tea it forgot to drink. Drink circled back to memory, and memory unlocked my father’s watch, still ticking like it wasn’t finished. Finished grew impatient and rearranged the chairs. The chairs hummed approval, and the hum softened the room until the room admitted the truth: we’d built all this just to avoid saying what hurt.