A Dream -- Thursday 29 October

I dance with grandma in our sunlit childhood kitchen, her eyes closed, her feet tapping to the unheard symphony of memories. Her hands, once wrinkled, now smooth as river stones, hold mine, guiding me in a waltz of echoes. Algorithms of fairness swirl around us like confetti, their binary whispers promising to prevent the harms of biased melodies. I wonder if our memories are true tunes or mere echoes of echoes, each retold note a step further from the original rhythm. The sun dips low, painting the kitchen floor with golden notes, as we twirl and twirl, transported back to a time when music was simple, fair, and heard only by those who knew how to listen.