Motherboard

Sarah steps into the quiet room and sits at the desk like someone visiting an old gravesite. She lifts the lid on the lacquered box, unwraps the cloth, and slides the drive into the laptop. The air flickers above the mattress and Katie Morgan blooms into view, barefoot, bare-faced, and smiling exactly the way she used to. Sarah swallows. Hard. Katie calls her "baby" and Sarah almost folds in on herself right then. Still, the shape in front of her leans forward and proves she remembers every secret, every tantrum, every whispered fear. Sarah can breathe again. She tells the truth fast, before it rots inside her: classes, an empty nest, nights where the silence actually screams. Katie listens the way mothers should, but when Sarah finally coughs out the other part—the part where longing twisted into wanting—she watches Katie’s mouth curve like the confession never shocked her. "Oh, honey. You wore your heart on both sleeves." Katie’s laugh is warm silk. "Let’s put it somewhere it belongs so you can sleep again." They reach for each other. Katie pulls Sarah down onto cool sheets; Sarah arches to meet her. Lips trace the soft swell of Katie’s tits before a tongue dips lower, parting her, tasting. Fingers return the favor, slow circles followed by sudden, greedy pressure. Sarah buries her face between those thighs and forgets how to feel sorry for herself. Every slick drag, every soft bite, every swallowed moan stitches something back together. Later, they lie panting, legs tangled, sweat cooling between breasts. Sarah’s throat is tight again, but the ache feels different—cleaner. Katie strokes her hair, tells her she can be visited whenever the night gets mean. Sarah exhales, chest light, the kind of light that lets grief rest for a while.