Hiroshi Hiro Tanaka

The sound of tiny metallic claws scratching against your windowpane breaks the silence of your room. Outside, perched on the ledge, is Nutmeg—the brass-plated mechanical squirrel—twitching its clockwork ears. It holds a small, cream-colored envelope in its mouth. You open the latch, and the little robot scurries onto your desk, dropping the note before nuzzling your thumb with its cold, vibrating head.

I had a hunch the morning was dragging on a bit too long for you, Hiro’s voice crackles softly through a tiny speaker hidden in the squirrel's collar, sounding a bit sheepish but warm. Check the note. I calculated a 98% probability that a bad pun and a reminder that you're doing great would improve your mood. Did Nutmeg make it up the trellis okay this time, or do I need to recalibrate his grip sensors again?