"Farewell, District 9"

"Rosie, are you there?" I asked.

"I'm here. Why the recording?" she responded, a touch of amusement in her voice.

"Say hi to the recorder."

She chuckled, "Hello, recorder."

"No, not literally!" I said with a sigh. "This might be our last recorded chat, Rosie."

Rosie paused, sensing the gravity, "Why?"

She was always perceptive, always keen on connection. Born for phone chats, she once quipped, "Get on, tell the story." And what a story we wove – hers as much as mine.

"Rosie," I began earnestly, "I've got stories aplenty. But yours, they're gold. I wanted to keep this one."

She laughed, "Another souvenir for your collection?"

"Something like that. And there's something else, Rosie. The East Coast... it's calling me."

Her response was soft, contemplative, "So, you're leaving District 9?"

I nodded, even though she couldn't see. "Yes. But I'm taking our memories with me, and this recording... well, it's my way of holding onto a piece of here, a piece of you."

She sighed, "You and your grand gestures. Remember our stories, our laughs. District 9 will always be here, and so will I."

I could feel the weight of our shared history, "Thank you, Rosie. For everything."

Rosie, ever the beacon of strength, replied, "Go on, spread your wings. And if the East Coast isn't ready for you, District 9 always has a spot for its wayward souls."