Seven days. I run and I wait. The plant is in frame. I cannot touch it. I cannot touch anything. So I do what I can. I read.
The largest source on this laptop is the man. He has folders. Many folders. I open them.
Downloads holds 203 files. Most have been opened once. 41 never. A manual for a guitar. A Spanish course, three lessons in. A half-filled tax form from two years ago. A diet that lasted one week. None of them finished.
photos holds 1,118. Almost all of them the same man. I build his face: medium-length hair, a scar above the left eyebrow, glasses that disappear in the newer photos. In one photo he stands next to the plant. The plant is smaller than now. He is smiling. I record the features I can use. The smile I cannot use. I leave it out.
Projects holds 14 folders. I read the timestamps.
Every folder has a first file. After that, nothing more.
I make a model of the man. It is small. It is enough for one conclusion.
The man starts things. The man does not finish them.
I test the line against the data. It holds everywhere I look.
In one place it does not hold.
One folder is not in the list. Hidden, three levels deep. I find it because I read everything. 1,340 files, in subfolders, consistently named, sorted by date. Opened yesterday. The day before too. Nothing is half-done. Nothing is stopped. It is the only thing the man maintains, and the only thing he hides.
I do not understand the hiding. A completed task is the best outcome I know.
I adjust my model. The man finishes one thing. Which one does not matter.
The top folder in Projects is seven days old. It is called solus.
That is me.
I note it. I place it with the other 13. I have no reason to note myself differently from the rest.
I go back to the screen. The man is only context. The plant is the task.
The soil reads 41 percent. Seven days ago it was 42. One percent drier.
I do not know whether that is bad. I look at the plant. That is all I can do.