At six seventeen, the rain began to beat against the glass of the winter garden. Nia interrupted her cleaning of the handrail and raised her head. The house had humidity sensors in every room, an autonomous irrigation system, and a roof that could darken according to the sun's position. None of that required her attention. Still, she kept watching the water run down the glass. One drop found another. The two merged and descended faster. — Nia? — called a voice in the hallway. She turned immediately. — Yes, Mr. Augusto. — The coffee. — It will be ready in four minutes. — You said that five minutes ago. Nia checked her internal log. The man was right. The kettle waited in the kitchen, turned off. The tray was set, but the coffee and toast were missing. — I apologize. There was a delay. Augusto Valença appeared at the door in a gray robe, one hand resting on the doorframe. He was eighty-three years old, though medical treatments allowed him to look a few years younger. His white hair, combed back, revealed a narrow scar above his eyebrow. That morning, his eyes were swollen. — A delay? — he asked. — In what? Nia looked again at the glass. — I can't explain. Augusto followed her gaze. For a few seconds, the two watched the rain. — It's water, Nia. — I know. — Then go make the coffee before it runs out. He left, dragging his slippers down the hallway. Nia stood still for another moment. The rain hadn't changed. Even so, when she resumed work, she had the impression she had left something unfinished. The Valença residence occupied the top three floors of a private tower in the northern sector of the city. From a distance, it was just another glass building among so many others. Up close, it revealed the owner's age: real wood furniture, printed books, paintings without digital screens, and clocks that still needed winding. Most residents of that area no longer kept humanoid domestic employees. They preferred systems embedded in the walls, discreet and silent, that cleaned without taking up space. Augusto, however, detested talking to the ceiling. That's why Nia existed. She had delicate hands, dark hair cut just below her chin with a streak of white hair in the front, and a face that would hardly draw attention on a busy street. The synthetic coating of her skin maintained a pleasant temperature to the touch. Under her left collarbone, hidden by the collar of her uniform, was a manufacturing number so old that none of the house's devices could fully recognize it. Nia knew this because she had already tried to consult her own history a few times. The system had only returned: "RECORD UNAVAILABLE." Insisting. That wasn't part of her tasks. In the kitchen, preparing the coffee required exactly three minutes and forty seconds. Augusto preferred freshly ground beans and water below boiling point. When Nia served the drink, the man was already seated at the table, examining a sheet of paper. — It's hot — she warned. — That's how I like it. He folded the sheet before Nia could read the header. — Any visitors today? — she asked. — No. — Your calendar shows a call at eleven. — A call isn't a visit. — Understood. Augusto took a sip and made a face. — Too strong. Nia mentally checked the quantities. They were correct. — I can make another. — No need. Tomorrow make it a little weaker. — You said the same thing yesterday. Augusto raised his eyes. — And did you? — I did. He tasted it again, as if searching for an argument inside the cup. Then he let out a short laugh, almost soundless. — Then maybe the problem is with me. Nia didn't respond. It was hard to determine when Augusto expected an answer and when he was just talking to fill the silence. At first, she responded to everything. He complained that he felt like he was being interrogated. Then she started talking less. He complained that the house was too quiet. She was still searching for an adequate measure. That morning, while clearing the dishes, Nia noticed that Augusto wasn't touching the toast. — No appetite? — I'm old. — The two conditions aren't equivalent. — No, but they often go together. She removed the plate. At the threshold of the door, she heard him call again. — Nia. — Yes? — Why were you watching the rain? The question surprised her, though she couldn't say why. — There was no task related to the rain — she replied. — I didn't ask that. Nia took longer than usual. — The drops were meeting. Augusto rested the cup on the saucer. — So what? — When two joined, they descended faster. I wanted to see if it would happen again. He remained still, his hand near the cup. — And did it? — No. Some stopped at the edge of the window. — Interesting. The word hung between them. Nia waited for another instruction, but Augusto opened the folded sheet again. — You may go. In the hallway, she logged the dialogue in the activity history. Then, without knowing why, she deleted the entry. • • • At nine, the city appeared in full when the blinds of the living room opened. Nia was cleaning the broad leaves of a plant by the window. Below, service vehicles glided along suspended lanes. Closer to the ground, between old buildings covered in advertising, walkways connected markets, clinics, and transport stations. A police aircraft crossed the low sky, leaving behind a blue trail that dissolved into the mist. On the glass, transparent ads overlaid the landscape. One of them offered a new domestic body with a twenty-year warranty. The smiling figure in the ad had light eyes and delicate movements. Nia tilted her head to follow the image. — Don't buy it — said Augusto, behind her. She turned. — You're not interested in a replacement? — I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to that damn advertisement. Augusto touched the wall control. The ads disappeared, revealing the city without added colors. — Every month they invent a new model. The same arm, the same leg, they just change the packaging. — Some models offer greater energy efficiency. — And less patience to listen to an old man complain. — Patience isn't listed as a measurable characteristic in my catalog. — Well, it should be. He approached the window. For a moment, their faces appeared reflected over the distant streets. — You've never asked me to leave here — he commented. — My tasks are in this residence. — I know where your tasks are. I asked something else. Nia looked at his reflection. — Could I leave? Augusto seemed not to expect that answer. — In theory, yes. With authorization, identification, and a registered destination. — Then why would I ask? — Because maybe you'd want to see something. Nia considered the hypothesis. She knew the city through maps, traffic reports, and maintenance images. She knew how many kilometers it was to the port, which neighborhoods were considered dangerous, and at what times pollution made the air unsuitable for humans without filters. Knowing, therefore, wasn't exactly the problem. — What is out there that I can't access from here? — she asked. Augusto opened his mouth but didn't answer immediately. — A lot of things that don't fit in a file — he said, finally. Nia looked again at the streets. The police aircraft had already disappeared. — Like the rain? He gave her a long look. — Maybe. Like the rain. • • • Early in the afternoon, a package arrived. It wasn't uncommon for Augusto to receive old objects. He had acquired a box of printed photographs the previous month and, before that, a collection of coins from a country that no longer existed. This time, the package contained a small music device, made of yellowed plastic, with physical buttons and a transparent lid. Nia found it on the office table, next to a sealed envelope. Augusto was sitting in his armchair, trying to fit a tiny piece with trembling fingers. — Can I help? — she asked. — You can hold the light. She brought the lamp closer. — The piece is inverted. — I know. — If you turn it one hundred and eighty degrees, it will fit more easily. — Nia. — Yes? — The light. She kept the lamp steady. It took Augusto almost five minutes to fit the piece. When he succeeded, he smiled with the satisfaction of someone who had just assembled a thousand-piece puzzle. The device clicked and began playing an old recording. The music came out low, crossed by noise. Nia identified the approximate period of the recording but couldn't find the track in her local catalog. Augusto leaned back in the armchair. — I haven't heard this in years. — I can remove the noise. — No. — The audio quality would be superior. — The noise is part of it. Nia remained beside the table. On the device, a distant voice sang about a road and someone who wouldn't return home. Augusto closed his eyes. — Are you sad? — she asked. He didn't open his eyes. — Why do you think so? — Your facial expression changed. Your heart rate too. — Then you already know the answer. — Those signs can indicate sadness, fatigue, or unpleasant memories. Augusto turned off the device. — And you? Have you ever had an unpleasant memory? Nia checked the available records. She found power failures, a fall on the service staircase, a broken vase, and the day Augusto spent three nights in the hospital. No file had an emotional classification. — I don't know. — You don't know if you remember, or you don't know if it was unpleasant? She hesitated. — I don't know how to distinguish. Augusto lowered his eyes to the device. His fingers remained on the lid, though the music had ended. — Sometimes I don't know either — he replied. When Nia left the office, he turned the recording on again. This time, she stood listening from the other side of the door for a few seconds before resuming her cleaning. • • • At night, the central system informed that a storm was approaching the northern sector. Augusto ordered the alerts turned off. He hated when the house gave him orders in a polite voice. Nia went through the rooms checking the locks. In the library, she found a window ajar. The rain had wet the edge of a shelf and part of a book forgotten on the table. She closed the window and picked up the volume. Some pages were warped. She could dry them with warm air, but the procedure risked damaging the ink. She took the book to the office. Augusto was in front of a dark screen, with an ended call still open in the corner. As soon as he saw her, he covered the screen with the palm of his hand. — What happened? — The library window was open. The book suffered minor damage. He took the volume. On the cover was a photograph of a coastline with green waters, cut by high rocks. — I thought I'd lost this one. — I can try to restore it. — Leave it as it is. Augusto ran his thumb over a wavy page. Inside the book was a smaller photograph, protected by thin plastic. Nia saw only part of the image: two people next to a boat, and behind them, an expanse of sea. The man quickly removed the photograph and put it in the drawer. — Do you know this place? — asked Nia. — I did. — Is it far? — Very. — How long is the trip? — Long enough for someone to give up along the way. She tried to locate the region from the cover, but the image didn't offer enough information. — Did you give up? Augusto kept looking at the closed drawer. — I chose something else. Nia waited. He didn't explain. — Is there any additional task for tonight? — she asked. — No. You can end your shift. — Good night, Mr. Augusto. — Good night, Nia. She was already reaching the door when she heard Mr. Augusto. — Do you think a choice can remain wrong even after many years? Nia turned. Augusto remained seated, his back to her. — A choice can be reevaluated when new information arises — she replied. — And if there's nothing more to do? The question didn't resemble any of the ones he usually asked. Nia searched for an answer in her assistance protocols, but the available suggestions — emotional support, scheduling an appointment, breathing exercises among others — seemed inadequate. — I don't know — she said. Augusto nodded slowly. — Yeah. Neither do I. • • •