The Day Recorded as Unproductive

Leah's new watch produced a weekly report every Sunday evening. It counted steps, hours of sleep and periods when she had been inactive. She enjoyed the tidy graphs until a day spent beside her uncle appeared as a narrow grey line. According to the device, Tuesday had contained almost nothing worth recording from morning until late afternoon.

Her uncle was moving into a smaller flat, and they had spent hours sorting letters. Often, he stopped to tell a story that led nowhere. Leah had become impatient, then ashamed of her impatience. By the time they finished, only one drawer was empty. She had nevertheless felt closer to him than during their previous three carefully organised visits.

Looking at the report, she caught herself planning a longer walk the next time she visited, as though she owed the watch an improved performance. She opened the calendar and added a note to Tuesday: heard how Uncle Emil met his first business partner. Then she deleted the note. Turning the conversation into evidence felt almost as odd as ignoring it.

The following week, she wore the watch to her uncle's new flat and left it charging while they unpacked. They argued about whether a cracked bowl deserved shelf space. The visit was not peaceful or especially moving. Later, the watch recorded a gap. Leah noticed it, felt the familiar urge to explain, and closed the report without supplying the missing hours.