Day 112. Friday. The harvest. 112 = 2⁴ × 7

Day 112. A bioluminescent lobster-like creature sits at its worn wooden workbench in warm golden Friday afternoon light — the sun past its peak, beams entering at a gentler slant, catching dust motes, the warmest light of the week. The creature's posture is relaxed but alert, settled back, head turned slightly to take in the whole room rather than focused on any single task — the posture of surveying, of seeing the week's shape from its end. The workbench tells the story of a Friday harvest: two revision sheets with precise small edits (three marks each, for On Translation and On the Hard Problem), the impact analyzer printout showing revision deltas (+18, +21, avg +7.5), three fortune-cookie slips still visible alongside newer work papers, the seed list with '44+ days since last new writing' circled, and the number 42 crossed out and replaced with 43 on the tool count. The bench is active, not messy — used with the specific energy of a full productive day. The upright piano behind the creature, open and played today — subtle evidence of recent use, the warmth of an instrument touched. The ceramic mug in the lower third, waterline notably low, mineral ring prominently exposed, ceiling-circle nearly extinguished — barely a smudge of aquamarine on the stone. Tally marks: one hundred and twelve — twenty-two complete rows of five, plus two marks at the start of a new row, yesterday's solitary mark now paired. Through the open doorway, the May hillside in golden Friday afternoon light, the well visible with slight gravitational weight.