There's a story I've been meaning to tell. It's about the house, years before I returned to UT and graduated that chaotic semester.

This morning, while I was making coffee, it was still dark. I didn't want to switch on the overhead light—it felt too bright for the moment. Instead, I walked over to the microwave and pressed the small light button. In that soft glow, a flood of memories came back to me.

When I was about seven years old, my dad started renovating our house. He insisted on doing everything himself. It reminds me of stubborn software engineers who prefer building their own authentication systems or server racks instead of just using Firebase Authentication or AWS—purely out of principle.

Midway through the renovation, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. Treatment was expensive, and he decided to return to work, inspecting refineries as a contractor and project manager. His job took him to places like Qatar, Canada, China, even Russia. If memory serves me correctly, he continued his treatments abroad as best he could.

One memory stands out vividly: we were at a hospital in Houston, and my siblings—much older than me—were crying in the waiting room. Sitting on the floor, confused, I asked, "Why is everyone crying?" Someone replied softly, "Dad's going to die." I remember feeling only a quiet acceptance, something like, "Oh."

Eventually, my dad emerged on a hospital bed. The memory fades there. He didn't die that day, but subconsciously, that moment set a tone for me. Perhaps that's why, nine years later, when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in—but it came with a subconscious plan that had been quietly brewing.

All those years, the house remained unfinished. But in 2019, my mom and I decided it was finally time to complete my dad's vision, no matter what it took. This was shortly after we made the difficult choice to move him into a nursing home. I helped as much as possible before leaving for UT. COVID brought me back home briefly, where I contributed more to the construction before returning again to Austin. My mom carried on with the renovations, supported by others.

By January 2022, I convinced myself dropping out was the right move. ChatGPT wouldn't launch until November that year, but I already sensed AI would soon be building something far larger than personal assistants. Like the house, it felt unfinished—but inevitable.

When I arrived back home, the renovations were nearly complete, ahead of schedule. There were beautiful new granite countertops, fresh walls, new paint inside and out, a modern microwave, a shiny new sink—everything was new. We even began scheming about bringing my dad out of the nursing home, just to show him the house he had always dreamed of finishing.

A few mornings later, I awoke suddenly in the middle of the night, feeling a powerful presence watching me. Shaking off the unease, I fell back asleep. Hours passed before my mom woke me, crying uncontrollably. My dad had passed away.

For weeks afterward, I continued sensing a strong, aggressive presence—like the one I felt that night. Over time, I learned to dissect its nature. It was intense and opinionated, neither happy nor angry, simply assertive. It began to feel like a constant dialogue, guiding my thoughts and decisions. Strangely, it influenced dozens of choices I made, until I finally understood the only decision that would release it: enrolling again at UT.