There was a piece mounted alone on the far wall. It looked like nothing at first: a blank rectangle, edges precise as a promise. Up close the surface was a skin of something metallic and warm, and when the gallery light caught it, it showed me myself — not my face exactly, but an ache behind the jaw, the way my hands kept wanting to check a pocket that was empty.
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I stepped closer. The piece warmed against my palms. Names surfaced in my head—fragments, usernames, voicemail beeps—V011RSP roaring like an engine that had never started for anyone but me. The heat did not belong to the room; it belonged to the moment the phone slipped from my hand and the screen shattered into a constellation of missed calls. There was a piece mounted alone on the far wall