You walk them around the old neighborhood. The pond where you went fishing with canned corn. The stadium where you raced against friends' pets—back when "friends" meant people from homeroom, before the word got complicated. The boutique is still selling ridiculous hats: a watermelon slice, a pirate's tricorn, a tiny crown for no reason at all.
You leave a gift. A rubber duck. The simplest one.
But somewhere, in a server graveyard or a forgotten cache, your pet is still there. Waiting by the mailbox. Holding a balloon that never pops.
You buy them all.
Your pet is still there.
You feed your pet a bowl of digital soup. They burp a cartoon cloud. You brush their fur until sparkles fly out. You visit a friend's pet—someone you haven't spoken to since 2011. Their house is frozen in time: a Valentine's Day bed, a jack-o'-lantern from October, a pile of unopened mystery boxes.
You close the laptop.