"The casing is a biological nutrient," she explained. "If you bury it, it dissolves into nitrogen-rich compost for our orchards. The internal circuitry is a technical nutrient. When the processor becomes obsolete, the manufacturer is legally bound to take it back, disassemble it in seconds, and use the high-grade copper and gold for the next generation."
She pulled a small lever, and the device blossomed open like a flower. There were no glues, no fused plastics, and no "monstrous hybrids" that trapped precious metals in unrecyclable casings.
The Council watched as Elara dropped a piece of the outer shell into a glass of water; it began to soften, turning into a harmless starch.
As she walked home, she passed a neighborhood park where the benches were made of compressed "technical nutrients" from old cars and the playground floor was a "biological nutrient" that smelled faintly of pine. In Oakhaven, the end of a product’s life wasn't a funeral—it was just a new beginning.