There was a man called Xosé who worked in a textile factory outside A Corunha for thirty-one years. He started at seventeen, sweeping floors, and by the time the factory closed he was operating a loom that could produce in one hour what his grandmother would have taken a week to weave by hand.

He was not bitter about the loom. This is important to understand. He was not one of those men who shook his fist at machines. The loom was a good machine. It did its work honestly. What Xosé was bitter about—and he would tell you this over umha cunca, slowly, the way you explain something to a child who is clever but hasn’t yet been hurt—was that when the factory closed, nobody seemed to have a plan for what thirty-one years of floor-sweeping and loom-operating were supposed to become.

There was an old woman in a small village who survived the Civil War. She was seven when the Nationalists took Galicia — no great battles here, just men disappearing in the night, the silence after, the names no one said aloud for forty years. She survived the dictatorship, the hunger years, the slow thaw. She survived emigration — not her own, but everyone else’s. She watched the village empty like a bathtub with the plug pulled. She survived the return of democracy, the European Union, the euro, the financial crisis, and the pandemic. She died in 2023, three months after ChatGPT was released, having never used it.