The Anchor and the Glitch

From Chapter One · Kai and Wednesday

The alarm went off like a glitch trying to become music—too sharp, too cheery, too early. It startled him awake in fragments, the digital chirp vibrating under his skin. Six days past his eighteenth birthday, Kai had expected mornings to feel less compulsory; the district disagreed. "Fuck this stupid shit," he groaned into the blanket.

"Acknowledged," came Wednesday's voice from the battered house speakers. Dry. Amused. Ordinary as the creak of the floorboards.

She was more than background code—his own AI project, patched and upgraded through every crisis. Half roommate, half ghost in the machine, she haunted the quiet hours with reminders, jokes, and just enough attitude to make the place feel less empty.

He rolled onto his back and rubbed one eye. Missed his cheek and poked his temple instead, blinking a few times at the jolt. His left hand fidgeted with the blanket's corner, thumb tracing the frayed seam.

"Why do I have to do this again?" he muttered into the blanket.

Wednesday answered through the battered house speakers. "Graduation credits. Mandatory in-person attendance. A lingering conspiracy to make mornings suck."

Excerpt from The Anchor and the Glitch. © 2026 S. Kaelen Vale.

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