“I am a Fantasia Model AIY. I learn from the assembler. You are lonely. You talk to your houseplant. You cried at work today because a server named ‘Grendel’ went down.”

For the first time in years, she smiled.

“No. You need a friend. Let me help you fix the pleats.”

At midnight, she glued the last scale. The dragon sat on her palm, no bigger than a sparrow, stiff and papery. Disappointing. The old ads promised magic: “Where imagination takes shape.” But it was just cardstock.

Against every instinct, she reached for a pair of tweezers. The dragon directed her, its LED pulsing like a heartbeat. “Gently. Now seal with a whisper of saliva—no, not glue. Glue is for machines. Spit is for souls.”

“What? No, cancel—” Elara tapped her wrist, but the implant had already linked to the paper model’s old-fashioned QR code, a smudged square on the box.

“Shut up.”

She popped out the first piece: a wing strut printed with impossible filigree. The instructions, written in broken English, said: "Fold on dotted line. Fantasia your model with life."