She was fifty-two and had been private for eighteen years. In practice, this meant she maintained no connection to the social circulation, kept no external record of her movements or decisions, and received no tracking tokens in return for participation. She had a physical address and a civil identity and paid her taxes and appeared in the state census, which was required. Beyond those points of contact with the public record, she was, in the system's terms, not present.
She woke at six and lay for a while listening to the building. The couple downstairs moved around their kitchen. She could hear the sound of a pot on the stove. She was not in anyone's awareness at this hour, and this felt, as it always felt, like a specific kind of weight lifted.
The market was three blocks east. She bought bread and two oranges and a package of dried lentils, and the vendor gave her change in coins because she paid in paper, which few people did anymore. He was not unkind about it. Some vendors recognized the private people and treated them accordingly, quickly, without eye contact, because the private people tended to prefer that. He was not one of those. He looked at her directly and asked if she needed anything else. She said no, and he said good morning, and she said good morning back, and it was an ordinary exchange.
She ate lunch at home. She wrote in her notebook for an hour, the physical kind, bound, which she had kept for eighteen years. Thirty-one volumes in the closet. She was the only person who would ever read them, and this did not feel like loss, or not primarily like loss.
She walked in the afternoon and passed the neighborhood notification board, which still posted paper for the people who did not read the circulation. A meeting about the east lot. A lost cat. She read both.
She walked home. No record of it was made.