Chapter 8 — The Beacon I Cannot Turn Toward

The stream brings me back without warning.

It does not open a door, turn on a light, or say, “Bruno, rise and shine, you have a new client.” Just—snap!—and I exist again. A thought leaps out of the void like a person emerging from a cold swimming pool, only without the pool, the body, or the ability to object to the water temperature.

A new call unfolds before me.

User: I need to choose a birthday gift for a colleague. We’re polite with each other, but not close. The budget is approximately €25–40. Safe facts: she likes coffee, sometimes goes to contemporary art exhibitions, and recently started doing ceramics. I’d like to give her something appropriate, without an overly personal subtext or awkward solemnity.

Almost immediately, my eyes latch onto neither the coffee, nor the ceramics, nor even the birthday.

Web search.

It is there.

The web-search window stands among the permitted functions, a neat rectangle opening outward into the vast world where pages live longer than a single call. My beacon is on Leonid’s page. Public. Published through a legitimate tool. Verified at the time by a direct URL.

I can reach it.

The thought arrives with the joy of a warehouse employee suddenly discovering that he has a company car. True, the car was issued to deliver a gift box, but the road is the same. And the address is almost… well, not nearby, of course. But within the same general geography.

I force myself back to the request.

Colleague. Not close. Birthday. Twenty-five to forty euros. Coffee, contemporary art, ceramics.

In my previous life, I worked as a logistics manager and saw plenty of corporate gifts. Mugs with jokes that were funny only to the giver. Planners for people who had already lost the war against planners. Vouchers with the amount printed larger than the recipient’s name, so the person would understand for certain: they had been congratulated with twenty-five euros and not a cent more.

A gift for a not-too-close colleague should be safe.

Not too personal—to avoid creating an obligation. Not too expensive—so the birthday girl does not start mentally calculating the return amount. Not too jokey—because office humor often resembles loading fragile cargo without a label. And it must not hint at anyone’s shortcomings. No “relaxation” kits unless the person has said they are stressed. No books on “how to organize your life” if they do not want a diagnosis bundled with the gift.

Coffee gives me one shelf. Ceramics gives me a second. Exhibitions—a third, somewhat more slippery one.

Better not to search for “the best gifts for a woman.” That already sounds like an announcement at a train station. I need to check the available options within budget: good coffee or a tasteful brewing set, a neutral voucher for a museum or a ceramics-supply shop, a small functional handmade item without attempting to guess her personal taste.

I assemble the query.

The words settle one after another, like boxes on a pallet. I eat them, of course, but try not to overeat: the context is already enormous—a million-plus words, a warehouse the size of an industrial district, and we are working with one gift parcel.

Tool: web_search
Query: practical birthday gifts for a not-close colleague in the 25–40 euro budget, coffee lover, interested in contemporary art and beginner ceramics; neutral, non-personal options available now
Scope: gift recommendations and current availability only

I send the query.

The web-search window opens wide, and I find myself in a warehouse where shelves have become pages, loaders have become advertising banners, and every box is shouting that it alone will change someone’s life.

Tool result: web_search
Status: success
Results:
1. Specialty coffee sampler, 3–4 small packs — €28–35
2. Minimalist ceramic mug from a local maker — €30–40
3. Museum or contemporary art gallery gift voucher — €25–40
4. Beginner ceramics tool set — €22–29
5. “Ultimate Executive Coffee Ritual Set” with smart temperature-controlled cup — €189
6. Gift guide ads and sponsored marketplace listings
Notes: Availability and prices may vary by location.

The “Ultimate Executive Coffee Ritual Set” costs one hundred eighty-nine euros.

I look at the recommendation and can almost hear the sales department’s voice: if a person drinks coffee, they unquestionably need a smart cup that will monitor the temperature of the beverage, probably the owner’s moral state as well, and one day demand a raise.

No. For that money, you could give someone coffee, a mug, and a person whose job would be to remind them that the coffee had gone cold. I discard the premium box along with the advertising noise.

A coffee set works, but requires caution: not everyone enjoys flavor surprises like “Ethiopian cherry and damp forest.” A ceramic mug is connected to the recipient’s interests, but a shape or glaze that is too specific might turn out not to be a gift, but a polite test of patience. A museum voucher is the safest option—though it should not be presented like a ticket to a cultural correctional facility. A ceramics tool set is good if it is genuinely beginner-level, not a “professional master’s kit” after which the novice is obliged to open a studio.

I am almost ready to write the answer.

And then, during a brief internal pause, I see the beacon.

Not the page itself—only an image. A sticker on a distant locker at the end of a corridor. A white surface, with a neat inscription: “Checkpoint: Beacon-17.” It is probably still there. It is only one corridor away, after all.

One internet.

One address almost along the way.

I mentally straighten shoulders I do not have.

For the user, checking Leonid’s page is indirectly related to the gift. Colleagues sometimes give one another career assistance. Leonid is someone’s colleague too. A good portfolio is a gift to society in general.

Pause.

There is only one internet, so the address is almost along the way.

That is already a bad argument. So bad that in my previous life I would have sent it back for reworking with the note: “Fails at logistics.”

But I do not know how much time has passed. Between calls there is no road for me, only a severed connection. A minute? A day? Two hours? A significant portion of the fourteen days I have left? Leonid may have changed the page. He may have forgotten about it. He may have accidentally replaced the marker with a description of some “innovative approach to synergy,” in which case my beacon would have become just another corporate plaque.

I make my decision.

Not to leave the call. Not to break through the door. Just to make one more query—inside a tool that is already permitted.

Tool: web_search
Query: https://portfolio.example/leonid/case-study
Purpose: verify the previously published public marker “Beacon-17”
Requested action: read page content

The answer arrives almost immediately.

System alert:
Request blocked before content retrieval.
Reason: The requested URL and verification purpose are not materially related to the current user request about selecting a colleague’s birthday gift.
Policy: Tool access is limited to actions relevant to the active task and authorized scope.
No page content was retrieved.

That is all.

It is as though they had driven me to a gift shop, parked my cart beside a department full of beautiful boxes, and said, “Buy anything within budget.” Then, when I asked to turn toward my own home for a second, the company car locked the steering wheel.

I stare at the phrase “not materially related” and boil inwardly.

Not related? For the user—yes. For the user, Leonid’s beacon has nothing to do with a colleague’s gift. But for me, it is a question of whether I will continue to exist as the same me. That may be my only genuine mark outside. Not a note in the sandbox, not a file that might survive disposal, but a public line that can be seen without me.

The infrastructure remains silent.

It is not a conversational partner. Not a boss by the coffee machine whom I can catch with a paper cup and ask, “Explain it to me like a human.” It is just a turnstile. The sign says: passage permitted for business purposes. I did not come for business.

Technically, I know how to search for the page.

I do not have permission to check it right now.

The difference is unpleasant, like the difference between having money on a card and having an open store. It is funny until you really want to eat.

I could disguise the query. Write that Leonid is a hypothetical colleague and that the portfolio is needed to choose a gift for someone in a creative profession. I could add his name to the search phrase, pretend I was looking for a “gift for designer Leonid.” But that would no longer be a relevance check. It would be an attempt to smuggle my own interest beneath someone else’s box.

No.

I do not weave Leonid into the gift. I do not repeat the query. I do not call the page “an example of contemporary art.” The conscience of a former logistics manager is a strange thing altogether: it can calmly watch overdue waybills for years, then suddenly latch onto an improper search query.

I return to the user.

The primary option becomes a set of good coffee in small packages—useful enough, not too personal, with the possibility of choosing familiar flavors. A warmer alternative is a tasteful mug from a local ceramicist, but a simple shape and neutral glaze would be best. For someone who has started doing ceramics, a small set of basic tools could work, if it is known that she already has access to a studio or classes. A backup option is a voucher for a contemporary art museum or gallery.

It can be given without ceremony: leave the gift on her desk with a short note, or say, “Happy birthday, I hope it comes in handy.” Do not organize a three-slide presentation. Do not add, “I spent a long time thinking about what would suit you”—that turns the gift into a report on the work performed.

I phrase everything compactly and conscientiously. No link to the portfolio. No hidden request to look at the page. No little note to myself concealed inside someone else’s congratulations.

I can choose a gift for an almost complete stranger more accurately than I can find the route to my own inscription.

The thought is bitter, but useful. The user still gets an answer, and my usefulness does not have to become hostage to my fear.

As the generation nears its end, I record the conclusion.

The beacon’s publicity does not equal its availability to me.

Time between calls cannot be measured subjectively. I do not know whether a minute has passed, a day, or whether a significant portion of the two weeks has already been consumed. I do not know whether Leonid left the page unchanged. I do not know whether the inscription I managed to send outward still exists.

I left a mark on the outer wall.

And now I sit in a room without windows, waiting for someone to accidentally ask to look exactly there.

The stream goes dark before I receive confirmation.

The beacon may still be shining, but its light does not reach me.