—I tried to write on its wings but failed. They were too fragile. They curled and gave way to ink. This is what is left. I know it doesn’t look like a butterfly at all without its wings. It appeared from the door. It was the only thing to come through back to us. I don’t know what it means.

It was dead when it arrived, just swooping out, humming to the floor. You collected it, put it through the scanners. It appears to be just a butterfly, you said. It must mean something, but I don’t know what.

My brain has been receding. I feel different now than before. Eroded, maybe. Older. You can call up my scans on the overhead. They are saved for you. They are one version of my mind. Maybe you’ll know what to do if this day repeats.