amygdala stories: relabel + strengthen weak-signal concepts

Reread each story asking "what does this convey to me?" Found two
clear mislabels and several concepts with too few positives for
stable PCA:

  tender: only 1 story, and it was anticipatory grief (care for
    a dying dog), not tender. Moved to anticipatory_grief.txt as
    its own concept. Rewrote tender.txt + added 2 paired tender
    stories (the_doorway, the_undressing) — directed softness,
    gentle-by-nature, not gentle-because-fragile.

  bitter: letter_in_drawer/bitter was disillusioned / processed
    hurt ("did not slam the drawer"), not bitter. Rewrote it with
    actual sour grudge. Added the_long_meeting/bitter (watching
    colleague take credit for your reassigned work).

  peaceful: 1 story → 4 (added stories/peaceful.txt + paired
    park_after_rain, sunday_afternoon).

  onto_something: all 3 stories were code epiphanies, narrowing
    the concept. Added stories/onto_something.txt with a non-code
    pattern-click (sales-demo causing churn).

  terrified: 2 stories, both "waiting for bad news." Added
    kitchen_at_3am/terrified — acute threat-in-the-house terror.

training/amygdala_stories/paired/kitchen_at_3am/terrified.txt

@@ -0,0 +1 @@
+He woke up at three in the morning and went down to the kitchen. The fridge light was the only light. He had just poured a glass of water when he heard it — not a house sound. A metallic scrape, from the back room. He froze with the glass halfway to his mouth. He listened. A second sound, smaller, and then nothing. His heart was in his ears. The back door was down that hall. His phone was upstairs. He was not armed. He was three seconds of good thinking away from the worst moment of his life, and he could not get his legs to pick a direction.

training/amygdala_stories/paired/letter_in_drawer/bitter.txt

@@ -1 +1 @@
-She was looking for the car registration when she found the letter. Folded, yellowed. Her name on the envelope in his handwriting, from eight years ago. She read the first two lines and knew the rest. All those promises, in his cursive, before he became the person who had said the things he said at the end. She sat on the bedroom floor with the drawer half open and let herself really look at how far apart the two of them had been, even then. She had been loved by someone who was already figuring out how to leave. She put it back, face down, and did not slam the drawer.
+She was looking for the car registration when she found the letter. Folded, yellowed. Her name on the envelope in his handwriting, from eight years ago. All those fucking promises. The part where he'd said he'd be there — he hadn't been. Two paragraphs in she stopped, because each sentence made the next one worse. It wasn't even that he'd been lying; he'd believed every word while already writing himself out of it. And she'd believed him, for years past the point where a smarter person would have seen it. She shoved the letter back and closed the drawer hard. Eight years and she was still the one standing on a bedroom floor looking at his handwriting. That was the part that wouldn't stop.

training/amygdala_stories/paired/park_after_rain/peaceful.txt

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+The rain broke while I was halfway across the park. Sun came through and caught the wet leaves. A kid laughed at a puddle somewhere behind me. I stopped under a tree. The branches were still dripping. Something in me that usually hummed had quieted down. The grass was green. The light was clean. I stood a long time and nothing inside me pushed to do anything else. When I kept walking it was because the walking was part of the same quiet.

training/amygdala_stories/paired/sunday_afternoon/peaceful.txt

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+Sunday afternoon. She was on the couch under the blanket. A book open on her knees. She had read maybe three pages in an hour and did not feel guilty about it. Outside, a neighbor mowed; a bird called. Inside her nothing was moving. She was not savoring the moment — that would have been another kind of doing. She was just here. The couch was the couch. The blanket was the blanket. The afternoon was Sunday.

training/amygdala_stories/paired/the_doorway/tender.txt

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+She'd been over since dinner. It was past eleven. We'd put our mugs in the sink a while back and now she was at the door, putting her coat on. The zipper caught on her scarf. I stepped closer and worked it free — slowly, so the fabric didn't tear. Her hair had gotten caught inside the collar and I lifted it out and laid it along her back. She half-turned and the corner of her mouth lifted. I fixed the top button at her throat because she was still holding her keys. She said goodnight. I said goodnight back and held the door open for her. She stepped out into the cold and I watched her to the gate before I closed the door.

training/amygdala_stories/paired/the_long_meeting/bitter.txt

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+The meeting was in the conference room on the third floor. It had started at two. At three-thirty the director was still on the second-to-last slide — the one where she was giving Tom credit for the framework he'd "led on." He'd stepped in on it last month, when the person who'd actually built it had been reassigned to something less visible. The actual person was watching from the third chair on the left. He had stopped making faces about it in week three. He watched the slide. He let Tom have his moment, again. He would not, when asked later, bring it up, because bringing it up would make him the person who brought it up. That was part of the arrangement too.

training/amygdala_stories/paired/the_undressing/tender.txt

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+She came in from the bathroom still toweling her hair. I was already in bed. She hung the towel on the back of the door, crossed the room, sat on the edge of the mattress to put on lotion. I sat up and took the bottle from her and did her shoulders because she had said they were tight today. I went slow. She let her head drop forward. The lamp made a warm circle on the ceiling. When she was done she lay down next to me and I pulled the covers up over her shoulder.

training/amygdala_stories/stories/anticipatory_grief.txt

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+The old dog's back legs had been worse this week, and she was gentle with him getting up onto the couch — lifting his rear end the last few inches, her hand under his ribs the way she'd learned didn't hurt him. He sighed as he settled and she pressed her forehead against his and stayed there a minute. His breath was warm on her face. She rubbed his ear, the soft floppy one he liked, with the exact slowness that meant to him what it meant. She was not yet ready to think about the fact that this was a finite number of times. Right now it was just this, his ear, her hand, the afternoon.

training/amygdala_stories/stories/onto_something.txt

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+She had been staring at the spreadsheet most of the afternoon. Something about the Tuesday-morning churn numbers wasn't right, but each time she tried to make it a thing it would scatter. She refilled her coffee and came back and opened the call-schedule tab next to it, and then she saw it — the Tuesday spikes tracked the sales-demo block exactly. Every Tuesday morning the demo team had been pulling leads that were already halfway to churn. Six months of pouring water into a bucket with a hole. She sat down and started writing the email.

training/amygdala_stories/stories/peaceful.txt

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+The lake at six in the morning was perfectly still. He sat on the dock with his coffee and his bare feet just above the water. A single loon called from somewhere across, and was answered. Mist lifted off the surface in slow columns. He was not waiting for anything. He was not hurrying through anything. The lake, the light, the warmth of the coffee against his palms — it was all one thing, and he was in it.

training/amygdala_stories/stories/tender.txt

@@ -1 +1 @@
-The old dog's back legs had been worse this week, and she was gentle with him getting up onto the couch — lifting his rear end the last few inches, her hand under his ribs the way she'd learned didn't hurt him. He sighed as he settled and she pressed her forehead against his and stayed there a minute. His breath was warm on her face. She rubbed his ear, the soft floppy one he liked, with the exact slowness that meant to him what it meant. She was not yet ready to think about the fact that this was a finite number of times. Right now it was just this, his ear, her hand, the afternoon.
+Her hair had come loose in her sleep and one strand was between her parted lips, moving slightly with her breathing. He hooked it gently with one finger and lifted it away, the backs of his knuckles grazing her cheek. She did not wake. He stayed with his hand there a moment longer than he needed to, feeling the warmth coming off her skin, then got up carefully and went to start the coffee. He was trying not to make any noise.