The screen flickered, and she gasped. It wasn't a livestream of her face. It was a slow, high-definition rendering of her own hands resting on her knees. The detail was obscene—the tiny scar from a baking accident at twelve, the chipped nail polish she hadn't bothered to fix.

The screen changed. The high-definition video melted into a simple mirror. Her own tired, beautiful face stared back.

"www.ifeelmyself.com is not a website," the text read. "It is an address you return to. There is no bookmark. You have to type it in every time. Goodbye, Elara."