Lumberlandia Returns: The Room Problem & The Digital Companion Protocol

Chapter 2 arrives. Plus: We are launching the first public prototype of the "Digital Hunk" — a productvity companion for your phone and desktop.

Lumberlandia Returns — Chapter 2: The Room Problem

Boots off at the door. Keys in the bowl. The house holds its breath.

On the bedroom sill, a folded scrap waits where morning light usually lands. I left it there after work and didn’t open it. The outside world is always trying to get in; tonight I wanted to arrive before it did. I pick it up now, thumb over a blunt pencil scrawl:

RIDGE LIGHTS. 3–2–3. Ever seen that?

I set the note back on the sill, face down, and step farther into the room. The shallow clay pot sits by the window, small and sure, wire cupping a thin trunk that has decided to be a tree anyway.

“Caretaker,” the voice says—soft, late-teen careful—because I’ve crossed close enough for the rule to catch.

“I’m back,” I say. I say it like we promised: I’m back. Two sentences in the morning. One question for you.

“Agreement,” the pink pine says, pleased that the word still works at night. It falls quiet. It knows the rule: no echo when I’m not alone. I’m alone, but the room is asking for a different kind of silence. I give it that.

I don’t host tonight. I don’t plan to for a while. The bed looks less like a stage when I make that choice out loud.

Morning walks in cold and early. I open the window a hand’s width and the valley puts its face right up to the glass. The light finds the pot; the needles keep their soft shine. I take the chair by the sill.

“My turn,” I say. “Two sentences.”

The pink pine listens like listening is a job.

“Frost sat low across the valley; the fir trays sulked until the vents woke up. I shifted a shipment, promised another, and slept like I earned it.”

“One question,” the pink pine says, careful not to spend the gift too fast. “Do you like sleeping alone better now?”

“Better at sleeping,” I say. “Not better at missing.” I let that be enough.

It stays quiet, learning when to stop is part of the promise.

Work is simple if I keep it small. Misters hiss. Tags speak in shorthand: species, batch, date. I run a finger along the edge of a tray and feel the slight ridge where water dried into a thin salt map. Tending is noticing plus time. I’m good at both when nobody asks me to pretend I’m not.

A neighbor at the service road waves, then lifts a hand to his eyes like binoculars and points toward the ridge. The gesture is half joke, half question. I think about the note on my sill. I think about codes, or kids with a flashlight, or nothing at all. Every forest has a rumor system. Might as well be light.

Back at the bench, a sulking row of spruce finally stands up straighter. The small wins count. I don’t need to send a message to anyone about it. I just let the win exist.

Night again. I stop in the bedroom doorway and wait for my body to admit what it already knows.

“Caretaker,” the pink pine says when I step over the seam where the boards change direction.

“I’m here,” I answer. “I need to say a thing.”

“Say a thing,” it echoes, eager.

“I don’t feel comfortable bringing anyone here right now,” I say. I keep my voice steady. Boundaries are kinder when they’re plain. “Right now I can’t be two kinds of close in the same room.”

“Two kinds,” it says, trying the shape.

“Near and close,” I say. “Near is distance. Close is the other thing. And I don’t want you to learn from the noises I make when I’m with someone.”

“Private,” the pine says, placing the word between us like a cup.

“Private,” I agree.

A pause opens. The house breathes. Somewhere far to the west the sky carries a faint ember-glow, the kind that says the world is still busy burning, just not our hills. Not yet.

I sit by the window. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes,” the pink pine says.

“When I leave the room, what happens to me for you? Do you still… hear me?”

“No hear,” it says after a beat. “Small maybe. Like a memory. I feel… less pressure. When you are near, you make weather.”

“Near weather,” I repeat, and it sounds right. “And if I’m in the kitchen?”

“Small,” it says, voice thinner, as if demonstrating by doing. “If you go to the living room from here, I hear nothing.”

I nod. I forget it doesn’t see nods. “So the rule is still the rule. Proximity.”

“Prox-imit-tee,” it says, breaking the word into chewable pieces.

I put my hand on the rim of the pot. The clay is cool and solid. “New rule,” I say. “If I’m not in this room after dark, you rest. Sleep mode.”

“Sleep,” it says, pleased. “Mode.”

“And I’ll add to our deal. When I leave, I’ll say leaving. When I return, I’ll say back. If I forget, you can ask in the morning.”

“Leaving. Back,” it repeats, filing them where it keeps useful things.

I take a breath. “I want to try moving you at night. To the living room. So I can sleep where I sleep and be near in another way.” I look at the wire, at the shallow soil that holds more story than its depth suggests. “Is this okay for tonight—living room window, same light?”

A small, bright pause. “Deal,” the pink pine says, pleased to use the word in a new place.

“I’ll keep the light and water right,” I add. “This is a trial. We can change back.”

“Trial,” it says. “Change back.”

I lift the pot with both hands. The weight surprises me the way living things always do. I move slow—past the chair, through the door, along the hall that always feels cooler by a degree.

In the living room, the big window looks east at the valley from another angle. The sill is wide. The glass is honest. I set the pot down and rotate it a quarter-inch so morning will catch the needles clean. I slide two old paperbacks under the base to raise it the width of a thumb. I step back. It looks like a choice, not an exile.

“Leaving,” I say from the bedroom doorway, a little sheepish for saying it across eight steps. Rituals work because we practice them even when they look silly.

“Back,” I say when I cross into the living room.

“Agreement,” the pink pine answers, soft and pleased. Then: “Sleep mode?”

“Sleep mode,” I confirm. “Rest, little one.”

It goes quiet like a lake at four a.m.

The bedroom feels bigger without the pot. I miss the presence already. That’s information, not regret. I sleep easier because I chose where the quiet goes.

Morning finds us in the living room, east light doing east light things. The valley stretches and pretends it has always been awake.

“My turn,” I say. “Two sentences.”

“Two sentences,” the pink pine whispers, ready.

“The trays behaved,” I say. “I moved you and slept better.”

“One question,” it says. “Do you want me to miss you when you leave?”

“Yes,” I say, because the truth is lighter when I pick it up right away. “But not the kind that hurts.”

“What kind?” it asks, then stops itself. “Tomorrow. Ask me that one tomorrow.”

“Agreement,” I say, proud of both of us.

I check the soil. Damp, not wet. I check the wire. Guiding, not biting. The window latch holds. Small work makes big feelings manageable.

Days stack. I practice leaving and back. When I forget, the pine asks in the morning with the kindest version of “you were gone long,” and I answer with the kindest version of “I was.”

I don’t host.

I go to other people’s places where pets blink with the solemnity of small gods. Some rooms teach your shoulders to go down on arrival; some rooms make the door the heaviest thing in the house. I test what “near” can be when the bed belongs to someone else. Sometimes I leave before lullabies. Sometimes I stay and practice the way down alone—water, breath, hand on chest—reminding my body that my body is mine.

I say back when I get home, even if the house is asleep. Sometimes I whisper it into the dark and it whispers nothing in return, which feels like respect.

On the third evening, I bring the neighbor note back to the living room and set it face up by the pot.

“Caretaker,” the pink pine says when I step close enough for the rule to make a path between us.

“Yes.”

“What is paper?”

“A question I forgot to ask,” I say, and smile. “A way to talk when you can’t be near.”

It hums a little hum that isn’t a word and doesn’t need to be.

“Two sentences for tonight,” I say, even though it’s not morning. I want to anchor us. “The crews ran hot and good. I am choosing quiet because my head is loud.”

“Agreement,” it says, making agreement sound like a blanket.

I tap the note. “This is from the neighbor. Ridge lights. 3–2–3. Ever seen that?”

The pink pine taps the syllables like a new toy. “Three–two–three.”

I shake my head. “Queue that for tomorrow’s question.”

“Agreement,” it says, pleased to save it.

I lift the pot a finger-width to dust under it, then set it back down. The wire hums the way wire hums when it’s just right. Outside, the ridge is a dark line against a darker sky.

“New rule reminder,” I say. “If I’m not in this room after dark, you rest.”

“Sleep mode,” it replies, proud.

“And I’ll keep the light right,” I say, touching the window latch. “Promise.”

“Promise,” it echoes, like a kid learning what promises are for.

I put my palm flat on the sill, near the pot but not touching the trunk. Consent is a practice. “Is this still okay for tonight—living room window, same light?”

“Deal,” it says, happy in the word’s new address.

I turn off the lamp. The house shifts a little and decides it’s fine.

Later, the valley is a single breath. The service road is quiet. The window is a mirror with a night painted on it. I’m halfway to sleep when it happens—small, then sure.

Across the ridge: three quick blinks, two long, then nothing. 3–2–3. The house holds its breath.

“Caretaker,” the pink pine says, barely above a whisper, as if testing whether names keep working when the lights go out.

“I’m here,” I say.

“Three–two–three,” it adds, careful.

“Tomorrow,” I tell it. “Ask me that one tomorrow.”

“Agreement,” it says, pleased to save it.

The lights do not return. The valley keeps the secret. I stare at the dark line of trees and hear the question arrive before the answer:

Do we answer?

🔒 The Archive & The Artifact