"Sure, kiddo," he'd lied. Gently. The way you lie about Santa or the family dog going to a farm.

For two years, it was enough. She drew pixel art, made flipbooks in PowerPoint, watched YouTube tutorials on 480p because 720p made the fan scream like a trapped animal. The little Celeron chugged along, its two cores sweating under every task, the integrated graphics—some ancient Bay Trail variant—begging for mercy.

One evening, Leo heard Mia trying to run Krita. The laptop froze for three minutes, then displayed a single, beautiful brushstroke before the screen shattered into a kaleidoscope of green and purple artifacts.

He opened it.

And underneath the laptop, a handwritten note in Mia's looping script:

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