[15 Years Later]
He rolls the lone walnut across his palm, contemplating. Then, in one swift movement, he swings his arm up and chucks the item against the window, watching the parabolic trajectory with mild interest. It clangs against the glass, but the material is sturdy and the walnut leaves no damage.
"Souren, you mustn't throw things so," An chides, but the tone is familiar enough that it lacks any sting to it.
"Yes, yes, I know." Souren sighs, then taps on the nearby screen until the view outside the window is replaced by the electronic rendition of a cloudy sky.
Souren falls back onto his bed. From his upside-down view, he studies An, named so when Souren was a child and shortened "android" — anzhuo — to the single syllable. An's been his caretaker since he was six, after he'd exhausted the patience of human nursemaids with his incessant clumsiness, chattering, and curiosity.
"And—"
"I know." Souren smiles a bit wistfully as he gets up from his bed and bends down to pick up the walnut, pausing as he reexamines it. The walnut tree that grows outside the window is a rarity these days, rather expensive, but still quite affordable for Souren's family, given that they are part of the aristocracy.
"Souren," An prompts when he grows quiet for too long. "Lessons?"
"Ah. Yes. Of course." He trades the walnut for the learning tablet and his bed for his desk. "Classical literature today, right?" Tapping his desk, he pulls up the holographic text of the work he is currently studying.
An serves as something of a tutor, personal assistant, chef, waiter, butler, all in one, although in recent years with the family's purchase of specialized serv-bots, his role has adjusted primarily to teacher and companion. After the lessons for the day are over, Souren sends An to grab him some tea, while returning his attention to the walnut.
He isn't permitted to go out often, the explanation being concern for his safety and that it's improper for him to associate too much with the wrong crowd. The only people his age he knows are children of other diplomats and officials, the sort of people his parents arranged playdates for when he was younger. But even those are more vague acquaintances than real friends.
But there's the once-a-month night festival that is the exception. It's a remnant from the family tradition of visiting the marketplace together, back before his parents' roles as diplomats took them away for years at a time. Now he usually just goes with An, accompanied by one or two security-bots from the household trailing behind. He really doesn't think they're necessary, considering how he's not even that prominent of a figure in the aristocracy and he doubts anyone even knows what he looks like, but it isn't worth arguing over.
The most recent festival was last night, on the path home from which he had noticed the lone, fallen walnut under the tree at the edge of the courtyard and pocketed it, before An or any of the other bots noticed.
He isn't sure why. As a memento, maybe?
He scoffs at himself; how pitiful his existence must be if simply going outside is marked with a milestone? But, truth be told, the walnut is a curious object. Given how he hardly goes outside, he rarely sees something like this in its natural state, before it's been processed.
Or maybe it's sentimental value. Walnut candies were his favorite, still are.
Her reverie is interrupted as he hears the clinking of china that means An is returning to the room with the tea, and he quickly shoves the walnut into a drawer compartment.
"Thanks, An," he says as the android sets down the teacup with its decorated porcelain, who nods in response.
Souren blows on the tea, still hot, before taking a sip. "Alright. And my studies are" — he throws a quick glance at the calendar on his screen — "government and politics next?"
"Yes, Young Master."