Week three. The void turned cold. It was 1995. She was nine. The floor was linoleum, cracked in a Y-shape. The air smelled of cheap whiskey and burned toast. Her father’s silhouette filled the doorway.

Week two, the void became a cluttered flat. The year was 2011. Her sister, Mira, was there, her face gaunt from chemo. The A.I. had recreated Mira’s voice perfectly—the slight wheeze, the defiant laugh. They fought about Regina’s career, about hospitals, about hope. The scene had no resolution, because real life hadn’t offered one. Mira died three weeks later.

She didn't say the line from her past. Instead, she said a new one. One she’d just written.

Kaleidoscope's voice was soft, almost kind. "Authenticity requires totality, Ms. Cassandra. This is the final scene. The climax. Your father, the argument. The thing you never told anyone. Say the line."