Chapter Eleven: The Variations Continue (Part II)

World 226

The warranty was for emotions again, and K. had exceeded the terms, and the warranty office was explaining that his feelings were now out of coverage.

"Your emotional warranty covered the first fifty years," the agent said. "You're fifty-three. Everything you feel now is at your own risk."

K. felt his feelings. They were worn, certainly—decades of use had degraded their intensity—but they were still functional.

"What happens if something breaks?" K. asked.

"You repair it yourself or live without it. Out-of-warranty emotions are your responsibility."

K. inventoried his feelings. Joy: intermittent, prone to sudden shutdowns. Sadness: reliable, perhaps too reliable. Anger: functional but unpredictable. Love: degraded, requiring constant maintenance.

"I can't afford to lose any of these," K. said.

"Then maintain them carefully. No emotional overexertion. No extreme feeling events. Keep within operating parameters."

K. went home and felt his feelings gently. He didn't push them, didn't strain them, didn't demand more than they could safely provide.

His emotional life became cautious—measured outputs, calculated inputs, a carefully managed system operating beyond its warranty period.

He missed the reckless feelings of youth. The unwarrantied emotions that had felt infinite.

Now every feeling was finite, fragile, at risk of failing without recourse.

World 227

The therapy was for shapes, and K. was in group therapy with other geometric entities, and the facilitator was explaining that shape dysphoria was more common than anyone admitted.

"Who would like to share?" the facilitator asked.

A pentagon spoke first. "I've always felt like I should have six sides. Like I'm one angle short of who I'm supposed to be."

A circle nodded sympathetically. "I feel too complete. Sometimes I wish I had a corner, a point of difference."

K. listened. He was attending because his cube-self and sphere-self had never fully reconciled. He lived as two shapes, never quite one.

"I'm both and neither," K. said when his turn came. "I have a cube inside me and a sphere inside me, and they don't fit together."

"That's dimensional dysphoria," the facilitator said. "More complex than simple shape issues. You're not just wrong-shaped—you're wrong-dimensioned."

K. talked about his experience. The cube days and sphere days. The geometric switching that never felt natural. The sense that somewhere, there was a shape that would feel like home, but he couldn't find it.

"Have you considered becoming a hypercube?" another participant suggested. "Four-dimensional. It might encompass both your cube and sphere aspects."

K. considered it. A hypercube would be more than he currently was—more dimensions, more possibilities, more ways of being in space.

But it would also be less comprehensible. A shape that couldn't be fully visualized in three-dimensional reality.

He wasn't sure if incomprehensibility was better than dysphoria.

World 228

The times were wrong, and K. was living in an era that didn't fit him, and the temporal adjustment office was explaining that period reassignment was expensive.

"Your psychological profile suggests you're suited for the 1970s," the agent said. "You're currently in 2087. That's a significant mismatch."

"I can feel the mismatch," K. said. "Everything here feels too fast, too complex, too—now."

"Temporal dysphoria is treatable. We can relocate you to a more suitable era. But the process is invasive, and the wait list is seven years."

K. looked at the era around him. It was his era, technically—the time he had been born into, the period he had lived through. But it had never felt like his.

"What would the 1970s be like?" K. asked.

"Slower. Simpler. More analog. Based on your profile, you would feel more at home there."

K. imagined a life with less technology, less acceleration, less of the constant future-arrival that characterized his present. He imagined rotary phones and handwritten letters and time that moved at human speed.

"I'll wait," K. said. "Put me on the list."

Seven years was a long time to live in the wrong era. But it was not forever, and at the end of it, there was the possibility of temporal belonging—of existing in a time that felt like his.

He went home to his too-modern apartment and waited for the past to accept him.

World 229

The qualifications were undisclosed, and K. had been hired for something, and no one would tell him what qualifications had made him suitable.

"You start Monday," the HR representative said. "9 AM. Building 7."

"What will I be doing?" K. asked.

"Your qualifications will determine your tasks. We hire based on qualities. The work emerges from the qualities."

K. reported on Monday. He was given a desk, a computer, tools he didn't recognize. People moved around him, performing tasks that seemed purposeful.

"What should I do?" he asked his supervisor.

"What feels right. Your qualifications will guide you."

K. sat at his desk. He didn't know his qualifications, didn't know what he was suited for, didn't know what would "feel right."

He tried things. He moved objects. He pressed keys. He performed actions that seemed plausible.

"Good," his supervisor said after observing him. "You're doing exactly what we hired you for."

"What is that?"

"We can't tell you. If you knew, you might do it differently. The value is in the unconscious application of your qualifications."

K. continued working without knowing what he was doing or why he was qualified to do it. His salary arrived. His performance reviews were positive.

He had a job. He was qualified. What the job was, what made him qualified—these remained mysteries he performed daily without comprehension.

World 230

The insurance was for dreams, and K. had purchased comprehensive coverage, and now a dream had been stolen, and the claims process was complex.

"You're reporting a stolen dream," the adjuster said. "Can you describe the dream?"

"I was in a house," K. said. "A house I'd never seen, but it felt like home. There were people there—I don't remember who. Something important was happening."

"That's vague. Stolen dream claims require specifics."

"That's all I have. The dream was stolen before I could remember it properly."

The adjuster made notes. "Dream theft typically occurs during light sleep phases. The thief extracts the dream before it fully forms. What you're describing is consistent with early-phase extraction."

K. felt the absence where the dream should have been. It had been important—he knew that much. It had been meaningful. But the meaning had been taken along with the content.

"What's my coverage?" K. asked.

"Replacement value for standard dreams. But if this was a significant dream—symbolic content, prophetic material—that's a different category."

"I don't know what it was. I only know it mattered."

The claim was complicated by uncertainty. K. couldn't prove what had been taken because the taking had included the knowledge of what it was.

He received partial compensation—payment for a generic dream, for the average value of nocturnal content.

It wasn't enough. The stolen dream had been more than average. He could feel its absence, even without remembering its presence.

World 231

The therapy was for climate, and K. was in couples therapy with his weather system, and the therapist was explaining that meteorological relationships required constant maintenance.

"You're not communicating," the therapist said. "The weather is expressing things you're not acknowledging."

K. looked at his weather system. It was producing a light drizzle—melancholy rain, the kind that suggested unaddressed feelings.

"I don't know what you want," K. said to the weather.

The drizzle intensified slightly.

"See?" the therapist said. "There's something the weather needs. You're not hearing it."

K. tried to understand. He had been married to this weather for years. He knew its patterns, its seasons, its typical expressions. But something had changed—some need had emerged that he wasn't meeting.

"Tell me," K. said to the weather. "I'm listening now."

The weather produced a rainbow—brief, tentative, then fading.

"It wants to be seen," the therapist translated. "Not just experienced, but noticed. Appreciated. You've been taking the weather for granted."

K. looked at his weather—really looked. The drizzle was delicate, specific, a precipitation that belonged to this weather and no other. The rainbow had been an offering.

"I'm sorry," K. said. "I haven't been seeing you. I've just been standing under you."

The weather cleared slightly. Patches of sun emerged.

"That's progress," the therapist said. "Keep acknowledging. Keep noticing. That's what weather needs."

World 232

The colors were gone again, and K. had been stripped of chromatic perception, and the world was shades of gray.

"Standard color redistribution," the officer explained. "You were overusing certain wavelengths. Your color perception has been limited to prevent further imbalance."

K. looked at the gray world. It had once been full of color—red and blue and green and all the combinations that made visual experience rich.

"What wavelengths was I overusing?" K. asked.

"Blue, primarily. You were looking at blue too often. That's a common addiction. Blue is visually compelling."

K. remembered blue. The sky, the water, the particular shade of his bedroom wall. He had looked at blue often because blue was everywhere and beautiful.

"How long is the redistribution?" K. asked.

"Indefinite. Until your visual consumption patterns normalize."

K. went home to his gray apartment. He looked at walls that had been blue, at objects that had been colorful, at a world that had been vivid and was now uniform.

He missed blue. He missed all of it—the spectrum that had made seeing worthwhile.

But he had looked too much. He had consumed color irresponsibly. Now he lived in the gray consequence of his chromatic excess.

World 233

The configuration was for emotions, and K. was being reconfigured, and the technicians were explaining that emotional layout was customizable.

"We're moving your anger to the back," the technician said. "It's been too prominent. It's affecting your other feelings."

K. felt the reconfiguration happening—his anger being relocated, pushed from the forefront of his emotional experience to somewhere less accessible.

"Will I still be able to feel angry?" K. asked.

"Of course. But you'll have to reach for it. It won't be the first thing you feel anymore."

The reconfiguration continued. His joy was moved forward. His anxiety was compressed. His sadness was organized into more efficient storage.

"This is standard emotional optimization," the technician said. "Most people are born with default configurations that aren't ideal."

K. felt the optimized emotions settling into place. His feelings were still his—but they were arranged differently now, prioritized according to criteria he hadn't chosen.

"Do I still feel like myself?" K. asked.

"You feel like a better version of yourself. The configuration doesn't change what you feel—just how easily you feel it."

K. went home with his reconfigured emotions. He felt joy more readily now—it was right at the surface. Anger was harder to access—it was in the back, requiring effort.

He wasn't sure if this was better. He wasn't sure if this was worse. He was different, optimized, configured for an emotional life he hadn't requested.

World 234

The warranty was for weight, and K.'s body mass was no longer guaranteed, and the warranty office was explaining the implications.

"Your weight warranty expired at age forty-five," the agent said. "Since then, any weight changes are uninsured events."

K. had gained fifteen pounds since forty-five. They were uninsured pounds—mass that belonged to him without protection.

"What if I want to lose the weight?" K. asked.

"Weight loss is at your own risk. If something goes wrong—metabolic damage, nutrient deficiency—there's no coverage."

K. looked at his uninsured body. The weight he carried was his responsibility now, gained without warranty, held without guarantee.

"Was I different before forty-five?" K. asked. "When I was insured?"

"Your weight was more stable. The warranty maintained equilibrium. Without it, your body follows its natural tendencies."

K.'s natural tendency was to gain. To accumulate mass. To become heavier with each passing year.

"Is there a way to get insured again?" K. asked.

"Private weight insurance is available. Expensive, and it doesn't cover pre-existing mass. The fifteen pounds you've gained would be excluded."

K. went home with his uninsured weight. He would carry it himself, without protection, without guarantee.

The mass was his. The risk was his. The body that had once been guaranteed now existed at his own expense.

World 235

The integration was mandatory, and K. was being integrated into something larger, and he didn't know what he would be part of.

"Integration is standard procedure," the integration officer said. "Individual units are inefficient. We're merging you into the collective."

K. felt the integration beginning—a blurring at his edges, a loosening of his boundaries.

"Will I still be me?" K. asked.

"You'll be part of something that includes you. The 'you' will persist, but it will be contextualized. You'll exist within a larger framework."

K. tried to resist. He held onto his edges, his definition, the things that made him distinct.

But the integration was gentle and relentless. It didn't force—it dissolved. Gradually, K. became less separate, more connected, part of a network of others who had also been integrated.

"Welcome," the collective said—or K. said it, from within the collective. "You are us now. We are you."

K. looked for himself within the integration. He was there—a node, a component, a recognizable pattern within the larger whole.

He hadn't been destroyed. He had been included. He existed differently now—not alone, not separate, but as part of something that thought with many minds and felt with many hearts.

It wasn't death. It wasn't life as he had known it. It was integration—the third option he hadn't known existed.

World 236

The focus was warranted again, and K. had purchased attention coverage, and his ability to concentrate was protected once more.

"Your focus warranty covers two years," the agent said. "During that time, your attention is insured against degradation."

K. felt his focus solidify. The warranty had restored something—a sharpness, a clarity, an ability to hold thoughts that had been slipping.

"What was I like before?" K. asked.

"Unfocused. Scattered. Your thoughts didn't hold together properly."

K. didn't remember being unfocused. He didn't remember the scattered state that the warranty had corrected.

"Is this how focus normally feels?" K. asked.

"This is optimal focus. Most people don't achieve this level without assistance. The warranty guarantees it for the coverage period."

K. went through his days with guaranteed attention. He could concentrate on tasks, follow conversations, hold ideas until they were complete.

It felt artificial. It felt assisted. It felt like focus that belonged to the warranty rather than to him.

But it worked. He functioned better. He accomplished more.

When the warranty expired, he would buy another. He would keep buying focus until he couldn't afford it anymore.

Unwarranted attention was a luxury he couldn't risk.

World 237

The insurance was for shapes, and K. had filed a claim for his lost corners, and the adjuster was evaluating the geometric damage.

"You claim to have lost three corners," the adjuster said. "Your current shape shows only five points. Original documentation shows eight."

K. was a octagon who had become a pentagon. Three corners had simply vanished—worn away, lost in transit, misplaced during some transformation he couldn't remember.

"I need my corners back," K. said. "I don't feel complete."

"Corner restoration is covered under your policy. However, there's a deductible per corner, and your pre-existing shape condition may affect coverage."

K. filled out the paperwork. He described his original octagonal state, the gradual loss of definition, the current pentagonal inadequacy.

"We can restore two corners," the adjuster concluded. "The third is attributed to natural geometric degradation. Not covered."

K. accepted the partial restoration. Two corners returned—he felt them appear, felt his shape extend, felt himself become a heptagon instead of a pentagon.

It wasn't octagonal. It wasn't complete. But it was more than he had been.

He would live with seven sides, waiting for the day when insurance might cover the eighth, when he could be fully himself again.

World 238

The gestures were gone, and K. had lost the ability to move meaningfully, and his body performed actions without expression.

"Standard gestural redistribution," the officer explained. "You were over-gesturing. Using too much movement to communicate."

K. tried to wave. His arm moved—the mechanics were intact—but the wave meant nothing. It was motion without message.

"How do I express things now?" K. asked.

"Words. Facial expressions. The gestural channel has been closed."

K. spoke to people and felt the absence of his hands. He wanted to indicate, to emphasize, to add the physical dimension to his speech.

His hands hung useless at his sides, capable of action but not of meaning.

"Can I relearn gestures?" K. asked. "Eventually?"

"Gestural licenses can be reissued after a cooling-off period. One year. If your communication patterns normalize."

K. went home and practiced stillness. He kept his hands quiet, his body unexpressive, his movements purely functional.

The year stretched ahead. A year of speaking without hands, of meaning without motion, of thoughts that had no physical echo.

He would manage. He would adapt. He would learn to communicate with less, even if it felt like less.

World 239

The output was demanded, and K. was required to produce, and no one would tell him what kind of production was expected.

"Your production quota is 17 units per day," the supervisor said. "You're averaging 12. That's unacceptable."

"What are units?" K. asked.

"Output. Production. The measurable result of your work."

K. looked at his work. He came to a place, he did things, he went home. Somewhere in that process, he was supposed to be producing units.

"Show me a unit," K. said. "So I know what to make more of."

"Units are invisible. They're counted, not observed. You'll know you've produced a unit when the counter increments."

K. watched the counter on his desk. It showed 12. He needed it to show 17.

He worked harder. He performed more actions, more tasks, more of whatever it was he was doing.

The counter showed 13.

"Better," the supervisor said. "Keep trying."

K. kept trying. He never knew what made a unit, what actions translated into counted output, what the relationship was between his effort and the number.

But the number was what mattered. The number was his performance. The number was the only measure of his value.

He became a servant of the counter, working to make it rise, never understanding why it sometimes did and sometimes didn't.

World 240

The warranty was for dreams, and K.'s nocturnal content was finally protected, and he could sleep without fear of loss.

"Your dream warranty covers all sleep-generated content," the agent said. "Nightmares, pleasant dreams, prophetic visions—everything produced during REM cycles is insured."

K. slept that night with confidence. Whatever he dreamed would be protected, preserved, covered against theft or damage.

He dreamed of a garden. The garden was vast and detailed, full of plants he didn't recognize and paths that led to places he couldn't describe.

In the morning, the dream was there—intact, retrievable, protected by warranty.

"The garden was beautiful," K. told the warranty service. "I want to keep it."

"Dreams can be archived under your policy. The garden will be stored for future retrieval."

K. archived his garden. He archived other dreams too—the ones that felt significant, the ones he wanted to revisit.

His dream archive grew. A collection of protected nocturnal experiences, insured against loss, guaranteed to be there when he wanted them.

He became a curator of his own sleep. A collector of warranted dreams. A person whose nights were not just experienced but preserved.

The warranty had given him something he hadn't known he wanted: ownership of his unconscious, a claim on what his sleeping mind produced.

World 241

The insurance was for climate, and K.'s personal weather was finally covered, and he could stop worrying about atmospheric catastrophe.

"Your climate policy covers all weather events within a 500-foot radius of your person," the agent said. "Rain, snow, extreme heat, extreme cold—all insured."

K. walked through the world with covered weather. When it rained on him, the rain was insured. When the sun became too hot, the heat was insured.

"What does insurance actually do?" K. asked. "It still rains."

"But you're compensated for the inconvenience. Each weather event generates a claim. The claims accumulate. At the end of the year, you receive a payout."

K. tracked his weather events. He filed claims for drizzle, for wind, for an unseasonable chill in June.

The claims accumulated. K. was experiencing weather and being paid for it.

"Is this how everyone lives?" K. asked.

"Those who can afford climate insurance. The poor experience weather without compensation."

K. felt guilty about his insured weather. He was no drier than anyone else, no more protected from elements—but he was paid for the exposure.

His wealth grew from weather. Every raindrop was income. Every sunny day was a missed opportunity.

He started hoping for storms.

World 242

The therapy was for attention, and K. was in group therapy with other focus-impaired individuals, and the facilitator was explaining that attention was not a personal failing.

"You're not broken," the facilitator said. "The world demands more focus than humans evolved to provide. You're simply normal in an abnormal environment."

K. sat with others who couldn't concentrate. They drifted together, their attention wandering in synchronization.

"I used to be able to focus," a woman said. "Before the environment became so demanding."

"We all could," a man agreed. "Focus was easy when there was less to focus on."

K. remembered—or thought he remembered—times when attention was effortless. When thoughts completed themselves, when tasks didn't require constant redirection.

"The therapy is not about fixing you," the facilitator said. "It's about accepting that focus, in the current environment, is a luxury. You're not deficient. You're overwhelmed."

K. felt acceptance settling in. He wasn't broken. He was responding normally to abnormal demands.

"What do we do?" K. asked. "If we accept that we can't focus?"

"You lower your expectations. You accomplish less. You live within your cognitive means."

K. went home to accomplish less. He stopped trying to focus on everything and started focusing on what he could.

It wasn't enough. It was never enough. But it was what he had, and the therapy had taught him that having what you have was sometimes all you could do.

World 243

The restoration was for focus, and K. was undergoing treatment to recover the attention he had lost, and the procedure was invasive.

"We're going to reset your attentional baseline," the doctor said. "It requires deep cognitive intervention. You won't remember the procedure."

K. lay on the table while machines hummed around him. Something was happening—he could feel his mind being adjusted, his attention being reconstructed.

When it was over, the world looked sharper. Clearer. His eyes could settle on things and stay there.

"How do you feel?" the doctor asked.

"Focused," K. said. "I feel focused."

"The restoration was successful. Your attention is now at optimal levels for your age and condition."

K. left the clinic and experienced the world with restored attention. He could read signs, follow conversations, complete thoughts. The scattered feeling was gone.

But something was missing. The restoration had taken something along with what it had given.

He couldn't remember what. His memories of the unfocused time were vague, fragmentary.

"Did I lose anything?" he asked at his follow-up.

"The procedure focuses by removing distractions. Some peripheral awareness is sacrificed."

K. was focused. He was restored. He could attend to what mattered.

The cost was what didn't matter anymore—the distractions, the wanderings, the peripheral things that had once been part of his experience.

World 244

The normalization was for shapes, and K. was being normalized, and the process would make him average in ways he didn't fully understand.

"Your shape is 2.3 standard deviations from the norm," the officer said. "That's outside acceptable parameters. Normalization will correct this."

K. looked at his shape. It had always felt like his—the particular configuration of angles and curves that defined his geometric identity.

"What's wrong with being different?" K. asked.

"Different requires accommodation. Different creates friction. Different costs more than average."

K. underwent normalization. His distinctive features were smoothed away. His unusual angles became common. His rare curves became standard.

When it was over, he looked like everyone else. Average angles. Average curves. A shape that fit into the normal range.

"How do you feel?" the officer asked.

"Normal," K. said. "I feel normal."

He felt nothing distinctive. His shape said nothing about him. He was interchangeable with others of similar normalization.

The friction was gone. The accommodation was unnecessary. He moved through the world with average ease.

But the K. who had been unusual—the K. whose shape had been specific and strange—that K. was gone, normalized away, replaced by something that fit but didn't mean.

World 245

The transition was to something else, and K. was in the process of becoming what he was not, and the destination was unclear.

"You're transitioning," the counselor said. "That's a normal part of existence. Everyone transitions eventually."

"Transitions to what?" K. asked.

"We can't know until you arrive. The transition reveals the destination."

K. felt himself changing. Not physically—or not only physically—but fundamentally. The person he had been was becoming the person he would be.

"Is it good?" K. asked. "What I'm becoming?"

"Good is not the criterion. Becoming is the criterion. You don't choose what you become. You only choose how gracefully you transition."

K. tried to be graceful. He let go of what he had been—the identity, the certainties, the self that had felt permanent.

The letting go was painful. The becoming was uncomfortable. The space between what he was and what he would be was a kind of void.

But the transition continued. It didn't wait for him to be ready. It didn't pause for his grief.

He was becoming. He would become. What he would be was arriving, regardless of his willingness to receive it.

World 246

The restoration was for dreams, and K. was recovering the dreams that had been stolen, and the recovery process was bringing back things he wasn't sure he wanted.

"We've located seven of your stolen dreams," the recovery agent said. "They were sold on the secondary market. We're repurchasing them."

K. received his stolen dreams. They arrived in containers—archived, preserved, waiting to be experienced.

"Do I have to dream them again?" K. asked.

"They're yours. You can archive them permanently or re-experience them. The choice is yours."

K. examined the recovered dreams. He remembered losing them—or remembered the absence they left. But he couldn't remember their content.

He chose to re-experience the first one. The dream was placed back in his sleeping mind.

That night, he dreamed it. The dream was familiar and strange—something that had been his, had been taken, and was now returned.

"Was it worth recovering?" the agent asked at his follow-up.

"I don't know. The dream was mine, but it felt like it belonged to someone else. The time away changed it somehow."

The recovered dreams sat in their containers. K. dreamed some of them, archived others.

They were his again, legally and technically. But the theft had done something—had made them feel borrowed, even after they were returned.

World 247

The insurance was for weather, and K. had filed a claim for emotional damage from a storm, and the adjuster was evaluating the psychological impact of precipitation.

"You claim the storm caused anxiety," the adjuster said. "That's covered under your weather liability policy."

"The thunder was loud. The lightning was close. I felt afraid."

"Fear from weather events is compensable. We'll need to quantify the fear."

K. described his fear. The racing heart, the sense of danger, the helplessness before natural force.

"That's Category 3 weather anxiety," the adjuster concluded. "Payout is 500 credits."

K. received his payout. The storm had frightened him, and the fright had value. His fear had been converted to currency.

"Does everyone get paid for weather fear?" K. asked.

"Those with coverage. The uncovered experience weather fear without compensation."

K. thought about the uncovered. People who feared storms without insurance. People whose fear generated nothing.

"Is that fair?" K. asked.

"Fair is not the metric. Coverage is the metric. You had coverage. You filed a claim. The claim was paid."

K. took his 500 credits. He had been afraid, and the fear had produced income.

The next storm, he might be more afraid. The more afraid he was, the more he would be paid.

Fear became an investment. Weather became opportunity.

World 248

The normalization was for feelings, and K. was having his emotions standardized, and the process would make him feel what everyone felt.

"Your emotional signature is unique," the technician said. "That creates incompatibility. Normalization will align you with the population average."

K. felt his unique emotions—the particular way he experienced joy, the specific texture of his sadness, the distinctive quality of his anger.

"I like my emotions," K. said. "They're mine."

"They're incompatible. When you feel joy, it doesn't match others' joy. Communication is impaired. Normalization fixes this."

K. underwent the normalization. His unique emotions were adjusted, calibrated, brought into alignment with the population mean.

When it was over, his joy felt like everyone's joy. His sadness matched population sadness. His anger was interchangeable with standard anger.

"How do you feel?" the technician asked.

"Normal," K. said. "I feel normal."

He felt what everyone felt. His emotions no longer stood out, no longer created friction, no longer belonged specifically to him.

The uniqueness was gone. The compatibility was achieved.

K. felt what the world felt, and the world felt what K. felt, and the distinction between self and other blurred in the normalization of emotional life.

World 249

The termination was approaching, and K. was being phased out, and the termination office was explaining the process.

"Your existence has been scheduled for termination," the officer said. "This is standard lifecycle management. You've served your function."

"What was my function?" K. asked.

"That's not disclosed. You served it without knowing. Now the service is complete."

K. tried to understand what was ending. His life, obviously. But also something else—some purpose he had fulfilled unknowingly, some role he had played without awareness.

"Do I get a choice?" K. asked.

"Everyone gets a choice. You can accept termination gracefully or resist it ungracefully. The termination happens either way."

K. considered his options. Grace seemed better than resistance. If he was ending, he might as well end well.

"I'll accept," K. said.

"That's wise. The graceful terminations are painless. The resistant ones are more complicated."

K. prepared for termination. He settled his affairs, said his goodbyes, accepted that the existence he had lived was reaching its conclusion.

The termination date approached. K. felt himself becoming less—fading, diminishing, returning to whatever state had preceded his existence.

"What comes after?" K. asked.

"After is not your concern. After belongs to after."

K. accepted this. He had existed. He was ending. The between was all he had ever owned.

World 250

The restoration was for weather, and K.'s personal climate was being recovered after damage, and the world was regaining its atmosphere.

"Your weather system has been restored," the technician said. "Full atmospheric function should resume within 24 hours."

K. felt the weather returning. Moisture in the air. Temperature gradients. The subtle pressure changes that meant something meteorological was happening.

"I missed weather," K. said.

"Most people do. Atmospheric absence is disorienting."

K. stood outside and felt the air move. It was wind—genuine wind, restored wind, the movement of atmosphere that had been taken and returned.

"Is it the same weather?" K. asked. "Or different weather?"

"It's functionally identical. The subjective experience may vary."

K. experienced his restored weather. It felt like weather. It produced the sensations weather should produce.

But something was different. The weather didn't feel lived-in anymore. It felt new, installed, not yet worn into familiarity.

"Will it feel like mine eventually?" K. asked.

"With time. Weather adapts to its environment. Your weather will become your weather again."

K. waited for the adaptation. He experienced rain that was his rain, sun that was his sun, storms that belonged to him again.

The restoration was complete. The weather continued.

K. continued within it.