Flowers Bloom

Sally clutched her treasure tight as she slipped into her apartment. A brush of her finger against the handle, and the door’s AI read her biological imprint.

“High security,” she whispered. The smart home dinged in response. There was a click as the door locked securely, and the single window in the studio darkened as a tint spread across the glass.

Sally limped to her kitchen table, the prosthetic hooked to her left knee sending random tingles and pains up her leg. Not only had she outgrown the prosthetic, but the synthetic nerves were also starting to fray. Sally sat at the table, switching the nerves over and finally turning to the book she clutched in her hands.

Thin, with a black leather cover – likely fake – maybe a hundred pages were bound into a package smaller than her hand. Sally thumbed through the pages carefully, allowing her fingers to soak in the paper’s texture, staring at the clean white sheets. The last time Sally had seen a real book had been in middle school. After that, digitalization drove physical books into obscurity and the hands of the wealthy.

Yet Sally held a book. A notebook, even blank!

A pen. Sally needed a pen, something to draw with. But Sally didn’t have books. She didn’t have paper or any cause for a pen or pencil or anything else she might use to draw. For a moment, she considered dipping a chopstick into a pile of ketchup or maybe barbeque sauce – then remembered the case.

Sally leapt to her feet and dashed to her closet, shoved her clothing aside, and started digging through the assorted boxes and suitcases she’d stuffed back there. Sally had assumed she wouldn’t need any of this when she moved. How wrong she’d been.

At the back of the closet, she found it. A small, wooden case. Sally brought it to the bed, sitting down and opening her grandmother’s vintage art kit. She’d used it regularly as a child, but less so after she’d used the last pad of drawing paper and realized how much it would cost to get a replacement. There were round tubes that once held acrylic paint, but she’d filled with glue to keep round. Perfectly cleaned brushes she hadn’t touched in years.

And a single pencil, snugly set next to a plastic pencil sharpener. Sally sharpened the pencil with sharp, rapid motions, glancing down at the paper notebook. Her fingers trembled until she heard a snap. Sally pulled the pencil from the sharpener and stared at the splintered end.

Sally knocked the bit of lead from the sharpener and started over, careful this time. She removed the pencil, examining the black nub at the end. It ended in a sharp point that she pressed against a fingertip, then gave the wood a quick sniff. Sally brought the tip of the pencil to the paper and froze.

She closed her eyes. Summer days spent doodling in the art pad ran in her mind. Taking studious notes in class, the only one who the teacher praised for such good penmanship. Winning contests. Going to high school and being slightly disappointed English was her only course with physical books. Being downright angry that college made her pay that much for digital downloads.

Sally blinked three times, rapidly, turning on her SmartEye. A holographic display appeared in her vision.

“What’s the value of this book?”

She directed her gaze at the precious object in her hand, hiding the pencil behind her. The SmartEye took several pictures as she turned it in her hands, creating a strange illusion like blinking without closing her eyelids. Images from websites across the web began to appear in an organized list to the left. Tens of thousands of dollars for this tiny scrape of paper and fake animal skin.

“How many require professional evaluation? How much does it cost?”

Almost every option on her list turned green and projected numbers for evaluation on the right. The sums made Sally’s head swim. Altogether, she might be able to scrape two thousand dollars together. Well shy of the $10,000 she’d need to get a new prosthetic.

Then one option caught her eye. At the bottom of the list, one entry wasn’t green. It offered the lowest sum, a mere $20,000. With a flick of her eye, Sally opened it.

The only requirement I have is that the book is not empty. So many take these empty notebooks and put them on a pedestal. Fools. $20,000 for a notebook, filled. No evaluation is required.

Sally’s pencil met paper, and a flower bloomed.