This was the deepest slider. It didn't measure distance from the screen. It measured trust. At minimum rejection, the app accepted every brush of her resting hand as intention—chaos, but total. At maximum, the screen became a cold, suspicious surface, refusing anything but the pen's precise tip.

Her father's tremor. Her own hesitation. The way a line wavers when you're afraid to finish it.

When Eleanor opened it—after weeks of ignoring the notification that her HP Pen needed "attention"—she expected sliders. Pressure sensitivity. Palm rejection. A sterile utility window. Instead, she found a room.