“Tendwhirr-class Companion. Obsolete. Unreplaced.”
She was once programmed to stroke burnt dogs back into comfort after drone strikes. Now she just listens. Sits on cold steps with you. Licks static from your fingers. Paws your shoulder when the tears come, careful not to scratch the bone.
Gabe keeps her around even though she sometimes replays the same purring subroutine three times in a row and forgets his name. She calls him “Cub.” Sometimes “Hollowfang.” Once, just: “Beloved.”
She has a patch of fur made from audio cassette ribbon, stitched by a curd youth who didn’t know better. It rustles when she moves.
She never asks questions.
She never asks for anything back.
When the feedback in Gabe's head gets too loud,
she lays across his chest and turns on the old magnetic hum.
Not music.
Just the memory of warmth.