I last saw my grandfather the day they set the cameras to watch him write. I protested, saying he deserved to spend his last days resting, not teaching a computer his calligraphy skills, but the company said something about preserving his genius and told me to talk with him.
He was abandoning me even while still alive, so I never did.
Every night I tell the robot to write random words, and ask forgiveness from the spirit in the familiar movements of the brush.
I think I understand now, but I'm not ready to have it write goodbye.