A voice, flat and synthesized: "Select your first target."
I looked at my laptop. The game was still installed. The icon was a plain black square. obliterate everything 4
And that was the game. For the first hour, I moved through the shard-windows, obliterating. A police station. A wedding. A coral reef. A rocket on a launchpad. A courtroom. A birthday party (children's silhouettes, smaller). Each time, the gray cube. Each time, the flat voice. A voice, flat and synthesized: "Select your first target
The voice said: "You erased them. Not all at once. One decision at a time. Every time you chose to forget instead of forgive. Every time you chose efficiency over tenderness. Every time you looked at something beautiful and thought, 'I don't have the energy for this.' That was an obliteration. You've been playing this game your whole life. I just gave you the button." And that was the game
At 673 obliterations, the game offered me a new option:
I closed the game. Not alt-F4—I clicked the X in the corner, the way you close a document you're finished with. The gray planet flickered. The chain counter froze at 1,000.
"I mean it's not a game. It's a mirror. And mirrors don't die until you stop looking into them."