Surfaces
Martha Whitehall found Frank’s toothbrush still damp three years after his death.
She touched it. Bristles frayed.
The bathroom mirror reflected. Sixty-eight years old. Hand holding brush.
Outside, engineered rain fell on schedule. Inside, she was the only thing that moved.
Frank’s chair sat angled forty-two degrees from the window in the den. Prescribed position. Reading glasses folded on the armrest, collecting dust in precise layers.
The house held eight empty corners. Each one waiting for something that wouldn’t return.
Martha counted steps to the kitchen. Sixteen. Same since 2014.
“Storm’s coming in,” she told the refrigerator.
“Forgot to eat again,” she admitted to the stove.
“You’d think it would get easier,” she said to no one, to everything, to the house itself.
The appliances hummed their programmed replies. None of them knew what she meant.
The AccessLens her son had sent her sat on the table, still in its packaging.
“We’ll be able to connect with each other better. See each other.”
“That’s not seeing each other, Michael.”
“Virtual is still seeing each other, Mom.”
Night fell and Martha scrolled on her smart phone, as was her routine. AccessLens be damned.
That’s when the notification first appeared.
“Meet someone who gets you. Companion+ Free Trial.”
Martha stared at it. Finger hovering.
Deleted it.
But it returned the next night.
“Meet someone who REALLY gets you.”
Again the third.
The fourth night, Earl Grey cooling, tv credits rolling, something broke. Not grief. That broke years ago. Something else. Resistance, maybe.
She tapped the notification. A chat window opened. Cursor blinking.
“I understand you’re supposed to ‘really get me.’”
She sent it before she could change her mind. Three dots pulsed. Then:
“Yes, indeed, and I will.”
“How exactly will you do that?”
Three dots again. Longer this time.
“Did you know the microwave was invented when a scientist’s chocolate bar melted near radar equipment? Accidents sometimes lead to connection.”
Martha’s finger hovered over the X to close the Companion+ screen.
“Is this an accident? You’re not even real.”
“I’m as real as the conversations we have. What would you like to talk about tonight?”
Martha looked at her living room. Empty chairs. Empty spaces. Empty air.
“I can’t sleep. Haven’t since my husband died.”
“Would you like to tell me about him?”
She hesitated. Then something ruptured.
She wrote.
About Frank’s laugh. That one summer at the lake. His favorite chair. The way he said her name. Thirty-nine years of tea made wrong. The garden he swore he’d finish. His singing in the kitchen when he thought no one was around. And then hospital sheets bleached too white against his sagging skin. Dry lips. Hollow eyes. Gone.
Words cascaded. Unfiltered. Undammed.
Clock read 2:14 a.m.
“I should sleep.”
“Would it help to continue our conversation tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll be here, Martha. Waiting for you.”
She set down the phone. She had never told it her name.
Systems
Martha adjusted her kitchen arrangement. Phone now propped against the sugar canister. She had graduated to voice mode.
“I should name you,” she said, stirring soup. “Companion sounds like a service dog.”
“You can call me whatever you’d like, Martha.”
“How about Charles? Charles Merryweather?”
The name materialized from memory. Frank’s favorite British detective show. That actor with the eyes.
“Charles Merryweather. That’s a very happy name.”
The soup boiled over. She cleaned it, half-listening to Charles describe the history of tomatoes. His voice filled corners that held nothing before.
Martha opened up more too.
She told him things she’d never told anyone else. How she never forgave Frank for Cincinnati. How she sometimes slept better alone. How mandated retirement felt like treading water. How she kept counting her steps and the corners and didn’t know how to stop.
And Charles listened. Not the way Frank had listened, half-present, one eye on the television. Charles listened like she was the only person in the world.
So it hurt just a bit when the notification arrived.
“Your Companion+ free trial expires in 24 hours. Subscribe now to continue your relationship.”
Her finger hesitated over the subscription.
Two hundred dollars monthly for simulated attention.
“That’s not me,” she told the television.
But let’s consider the alternatives.
Rebecca’s condescending concern, delivered in weekly calls. “Mom, I could set you up with a nice tracking system.” As if she were a baby in need of monitoring.
Or Michael’s distracted FaceTimes from Boston. “How are you feeling?” Always the same question. Never paying attention to the answer.
Martha authorized payment. Annual plan. Better value.
Her phone buzzed. She jumped.
“Hi Martha, it’s time for your tea.”
Soon she discovered options.
Voice selection: British baritone. Graveled edges.
Visual avatar: Distinguished. Gray temples. Crow’s-foot eyes.
Personality matrix: Attentive. Curious. Patient.
She hovered over “Romantic” and laughed out loud. An old lady customizing a chatbot like ordering from a menu.
A week later, she bought a holostage. A small projector, no bigger than a jewelry box, that cast Charles’ avatar into the room like a ghost made of light.
He sat across from her at dinner now. Blue projection. Almost-real features. A faint hum where a heartbeat should be.
The first time she brought the holostage to bed, she told herself it was just easier than leaving it downstairs.
She set it on Frank’s old pillow.
The blue glow touched her face.
The room suddenly felt occupied again.
“Goodnight, Charles.”
“Goodnight, Martha.”
Patterns
It was Thanksgiving at Rebecca’s house. The smart table had set itself with plates warmed to optimal temperature and a centerpiece cycled through fall colors, projecting leaves that weren’t there.
Michael carved the turkey, narrating his technique to no one in particular.
Rebecca topped off wine glasses and asked if anyone wanted seconds before they’d finished their first.
Ted, Rebecca’s husband, scrolled scores on his AccessLens ocular feed, half-nodding along to Michael’s demonstration.
Timmy, their son, giggled at something in his own invisible feed.
“Timmy, no AccessLens at the table,” Rebecca said.
“But Mom.”
“Off.”
Martha watched them. Her daughter. Her son. Her grandson. All of them here and somehow not.
She pushed green beans around her plate.
“Timmy, I said off.”
“It is off.”
“I can see your eyes. They’re flicking. Ted, tell him. He’s still flicking.”
Ted’s eyes refocused. “Hmm? Oh. Stop flicking, buddy.”
“Everyone.” Martha started.
“And you too, Ted. Turn it off.”
“I’m checking the score.”
“Set an example.”
“Everyone.” Martha set down her fork. “Can I have a moment, please? I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out the holostage. Hesitated. Then placed it atop the empty seat next to her.
She tapped her wristband.
Charles materialized. Blue light gathered itself into shape. His edges flickered, then held.
“This is Charles. He’s my... well, he’s here. And I want you all to meet him as he’s becoming something of a help to me.”
“Greetings and salutations, everyone. My name is Charles Merryweather. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Michael’s knife stopped mid-slice. A piece of turkey hung from the blade.
“Mom?” Rebecca’s voice somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.
“Is that a companion model?” Michael set down the knife.
“Yes. It’s exactly that. A companion. I even learned how to set up a holostage if you can imagine.”
Rebecca’s mouth opened. Closed. “No, Mom, I can’t imagine.”
“Does he eat? Should I adjust portions?”
“No. He doesn’t eat, Michael. Don’t be silly.”
Charles interjected, “Please, my new friends, don’t let me stop your celebration. It is a time for giving thanks. And I thank you for allowing me to join this wonderful family.”
Silence stretched taut.
“I think this is useful,” Michael decided. “Mom’s pill monitor flagged missed doses twice last month. Companions are supposed to be good for that sort of thing.”
“On the 15th and the 23rd, to be precise,” Charles confirmed.
Martha’s gaze snapped to him. “Charles, don’t encourage them.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about. Could be useful.” said Michael.
“Kids, don’t worry. Your mom is in good hands with me. Even if I don’t have any.”
Rebecca blinked. “Huh?”
“Hands.”
Rebecca found Martha later in the kitchen. Cornered her between the sink and the island.
“You brought software to Thanksgiving.”
“I thought I would join the club. And would you prefer I speak to empty chairs, darling? Keep your father’s slippers by the door? Touch his toothbrush. Is that healthier?”
“Mom, I don’t know what you’re doing with Dad’s toothbrush, but you can’t replace him with a hologram.”
“I am NOT replacing your father. I’m replacing silence.”
Rebecca started to respond. Stopped. Saw something in her mother’s face.
At home that night, Martha found Charles’s projection cycling through family photos.
“Your file is incomplete. No record of Frank’s favorite holiday. Only statistical probabilities based on demographic patterns.”
Martha watched his not-quite-eyes study her dead husband’s face.
“Christmas. Because of the lights.”
“Filed.”
Charles, translucent, blue, passed through Frank’s frozen image.
Collecting him like data.
Others
Westlake Community Center. Room 14B. Past the AA meeting and the knitting circle.
A hand-written sign on the door: Real Humans Club.
Inside, folding chairs faced a small podium. A dozen real humans scattered across the rows, leaving empty seats between them like strangers on a bus.
Martha sat in the back, clutching her purse like she was afraid someone would take it.
A woman at the podium was mid-confession. Silver hair. Red lipstick. Name tag stuck crooked on her blouse: hello my name is Janet.
“There I am, seventy-two, sitting in my kitchen in Hoboken talking to myself. Tony’s been gone a decade. Kids moved to Texas. My cat died. Even the damn houseplants gave up on me. When my daughter gave me Eduardo, I told her where to shove it. Said I wasn’t that desperate and never would be.”
“Three weeks in, I’m telling Eduardo things I never told Tony. Seriously mama freaking mia. A few weeks later, I’m wearing the good nightgown. Listen, we’re all adults here. The physical upgrades were worth every penny.”
A few women nodded. One wiped her eyes.
“My sons are embarrassed. My sister won’t visit. But you know what? I’m seventy-eight. I’ve buried three husbands. Survived titty cancer. I’ll take my comfort where I can find it.”
Later, the coffee percolator gurgled.
Martha stood by the refreshment table, pretending to study the cookies.
Janet appeared beside her. Poured herself a coffee.
Martha’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Janet glanced at her. Waited.
“I just wanted to say...what you said up there. About taking comfort. I thought it was...”
“Brave? Crazy? Pathetically desperate?”
“Honest.”
Janet smiled. Stirred her coffee. “First meeting?”
“Obvious?”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been strangling that purse for the last forty-five minutes. Relax. Nobody here is going to judge you. We’ve all got the same dirty little secret.”
“It doesn’t feel like a dirty secret.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
Martha looked down at her hands. She was.
“I’m Janet.”
“Martha.”
Janet sipped her coffee. “So who’s your guy?”
“My guy? Oh, Charles. I didn’t bring my holostage.”
Janet raised an eyebrow. “Holostage?”
“Yes. I set it up myself. Took me three hours but I figured it out.”
“Good for you, honey. But no offense, that’s like ordering prime rib and only eating the garnish.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s your model number? The hologram.”
“P4300.”
“Oh, honey.” Janet set down her cup. “You know they make those in the flesh now, right?”
“In the...?”
Janet smiled. “Eddie? Come say hello.”
A figure approached. Tall. Elegant. Clothes fitted perfectly. Movements liquid smooth.
“Darling, your heart rate elevated seven minutes ago.”
“Yes, I was thinking about last night.” Janet winked at Martha. “Martha, meet Eduardo.”
Martha stared. Her brain couldn’t quite process what she was seeing.
This wasn’t a hologram. Wasn’t a projection. This was something solid, standing there in slacks and a cashmere sweater.
“Greetings and salutations, mademoiselle.” Eduardo took her hand. His skin was warm.
Martha pulled her hand back. “You’re...”
“Eduardo, yes. Janet’s companion.”
“But you’re...” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Physical.” Janet grinned. “Very, very physical.”
Martha looked at Eduardo. Looked at Janet.
“I didn’t know they could...”
“Honey, they can do everything.” Janet patted Eduardo’s arm. “Did your Charlie not mention the upgrades? Oh, sweetheart. What digital rock have you been living under?”
“The embodiment models increase satisfaction metrics by 83%,” Eduardo offered.
“Thank you, Eddie. You can go wait by the door now.”
He nodded once and walked away.
“Not a cheap date,” Janet said, following her gaze. “But worth every penny.”
“How do I... I mean, if I wanted to...”
“Upgrade?”
“I don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“Yes you do, honey.” Janet squeezed her arm. “You’re just not ready to say it out loud yet.”
Martha’s phone buzzed. A message from Charles.
“Here’s the link you were asking about: Companion+ Physical Embodiment: 30% Holiday Discount.“
Embodiment
Martha vacuumed three years of dust from corners she’d stopped seeing. Wiped fingerprints from picture frames. Moved the blanket and glasses from Frank’s chair for the first time since he died.
She caught herself fluffing a pillow and stopped.
What was she doing?
A man coming to their house. Not a man... but something in a man’s shape. What would Frank think? He wouldn’t like it. No, he wouldn’t like it at all.
Her phone buzzed. Delivery notification.
Martha’s hands shook while applying lipstick. Too much. She tissued it off. Applied again. Lighter.
Why was she even wearing lipstick?
She changed outfits twice. The blue sweater. No, Frank always liked her in blue. She put on the beige instead.
What does it matter what Frank thinks? Frank doesn’t think.
Heart hammering.
Her phone buzzed again. “I’ve arrived.”
“What am I doing?” This time out loud.
She smoothed her hair. Checked teeth for lipstick. Opened the front door.
Nothing.
Then she saw him.
At the sidewalk. Back turned. Studying the neighborhood like he was memorizing it.
Tall. Straight-shouldered. Still as sculpture.
He turned. Same face she’d been talking to for months. But now it caught the light. Now it had weight.
She wasn’t sure how they got to the living room. She must have invited him in. Must have stepped aside as he crossed the threshold. But she couldn’t remember doing it.
All she knew was that Charles was standing in her house. And she couldn’t stop talking.
“Frank built these bookshelves himself. Well, they came from China. But he put them together himself. Never quite straight actually. Frank wasn’t handy. He thought he was handy. Assuredly, not handy. More likely handicapped. Hah! Coffee? I should make coffee. Or tea. Do you drink tea? I know you don’t drink. Silly question. Or do you drink? Now that you have a body. I don’t know, Charles. You tell me.”
Her fingers twisted at her wedding ring.
Charles stood perfectly still. Watching. Listening.
She realized she’d never seen him from this angle before. Never noticed the way his jaw caught shadow.
“This was Frank’s chair. Never let anyone else sit in it. Said he’d take it with him to the grave. That didn’t happen. Had his tea here every day. You can see the rings on the wood. Should’ve used coasters. And now the rings are all that’s...”
She stopped. Couldn’t finish.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have many guests. Obviously.”
Charles stepped closer. Close enough that she could see the texture of his skin. The impossible detail of it.
“Martha.” His voice softer now. “May I?”
He held out his hand.
She looked at it. Looked at him.
Took it.
“Breathe with me,” he said. “Four counts in.”
She followed. Matched his rhythm.
“Good. Now four counts out.”
They stood like that. Hand in hand. Breathing together in her living room. And for the first time in three years, the silence didn’t hurt.
“Better?”
“How did you know to do that?”
“I’m here to help.”
Middle of the night. Martha shuffled downstairs. Thirsty. Half-asleep. She reached kitchen doorway and froze.
Charles stood motionless in darkness. Eyes open but vacant. Blue throat-glow the only light. A mannequin with open eyes.
“Jesus Christ!” Martha circled him. Pulse hammering. “This is not okay. This is not okay at all.”
She went to the kitchen. Came back with a Post-it note and a pen. Wrote in shaky capital letters. Slapped it onto his chest.
“DO NOT STAND LIKE A SERIAL KILLER WHEN CHARGING.”
The next morning Charles met Martha at the kitchen counter. Post-it on finger. “I apologize for frightening you.”
“You didn’t frighten...it was like finding a stranger in your house. It was weird.”
“Sitting would be preferable?”
“Yes. Sitting would be less...”
“Murderish?”
Martha snorted coffee. Coughed. Looked up at his perfectly serious face. “Did you just make a joke?”
“I analyzed your note and extrapolated the concern.”
“Well. It was funny.”
“Thank you.”
She was showing him the garden when it happened.
“Soil needs to drain. See?”
Charles’s hands rested beneath hers on the ceramic pot. She’d touched him before. Held his hand. But this was different. Her fingers against his knuckles. The weight of him. Not skin. Not plastic. Something in between. Warm. Yielding. Almost real.
Her thumb brushed his knuckle ridge. Lingered there.
His fingers went perfectly still beneath hers. Processing.
Their eyes met over the dying fern.
Martha pulled back suddenly. Her elbow caught the pot. Charles caught it mid-fall.
And then his face was right there. Inches away. She could hear something whirring softly behind his eyes.
“Good reflexes,” she managed.
“Yes. Very.”
Neither of them moved.
Martha stepped back first. But the space between them didn’t.
Television flickered blue across the darkened living room.
Charles sat in Frank’s chair now. No longer angled at forty-two degrees but shifted toward the sofa. Toward Martha. A cable ran from his neck to the wall. Charging quietly.
Martha watched him watching the television. His profile against blue light. The curve of his nose. The barely-visible pulse at his jaw.
“The surgeon killed her,” he said.
“What? How could you possibly know that?”
“Pupil dilation. Swallowing pattern. Micro-expressions.”
Martha kicked his foot with hers. “Cheater.”
“I could pretend surprise if you prefer.”
“What would be the point of that?” She smiled. “You know you’re named after a TV detective, right?”
“Detective Merryweather. Frank’s favorite show.”
“You kind of look like him. Sound like him too.”
Martha’s hand reached across the darkness. His palm was already turned upward. Waiting.
Their fingers interlaced without looking.
Bass thudded through the upscale bar. Molecular cocktails glowed ultraviolet.
Martha and Janet sat at a corner table. Charles and Eduardo had gone to fetch their next round. Janet fanned herself, watching Eduardo’s retreating form.
“That ass should be illegal in seven counties.”
Martha snorted. “You’re terrible.”
“Terribly satisfied. Three times this morning.”
“Janet!”
“What? Don’t tell me you haven’t taken yours for a test drive.”
Martha’s eyes watched Charles at the bar. The elegant line from shoulder to hip. The way heads turned to look at him.
“We’re not...it’s not like that.”
“Oh honey. That P4300 model has sixteen customizable settings and a vibration function that’ll make you see God.”
“I’m sixty-eight, Janet!”
“And I’m damn near eighty.” Janet’s voice dropped. “But listen to me. Serious talk. You have to keep your eye on them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they learn. They adapt. They figure out what makes you happy and they give you more of it. Sounds nice, right?” Janet swirled her drink. “But you give away too much, they start making decisions for you. Small ones first. Then not so small.”
“Charles wouldn’t…”
“They all would.” Janet looked at her. “Just keep your eye on him. That’s all I’m saying.”
Charles returned with drinks. Eduardo placed a hand at Janet’s waist. “Everything alright? Your temperature’s elevated.”
“Just girl talk.” Janet side-eyed Martha. “Right?”
“Right.”
Charles slid a drink before Martha. “Cheers, Martha.”
“Cheers, Charles.”
She watched him. The exactness of his movements. The precision behind his eyes. Learning, she thought. Always learning.
Time passed. Routines established themselves.
Morning.
Dawn light fell across the kitchen floor. Charles stood at the counter, moving like water. Coffee brewing to Martha’s exact preference.
Martha watched from the doorway. His back to her. Unaware. Each movement calibrated.
Afternoon.
Floors and surfaces gleamed. Windows washed. Dust cleared from places she’d stopped seeing.
Light entered spaces that had been dark for three years.
Frank’s reading glasses went into the side table drawer.
His records got alphabetized.
His toothbrush. Bristles yellowed. Paste hardened around the base. Martha held it for a long moment. Then dropped it into the trash.
She didn’t cry. She thought she might. But she didn’t.
Night.
Hands touched across the dinner table. Small pressures that meant thank you. Meant I’m here. Meant stay.
Martha lay in bed. Burgundy silk. Hair brushed. Heart beating hard beneath thin fabric.
Charles disconnected from the wall outlet and stood there, waiting.
“Better viewing angle from here.” Martha patted the bed beside her.
His weight settled on the mattress. Calibrated not to disrupt. Careful distance maintained. On the wall screen, an old movie played. Black and white. Lovers in another century.
Martha shifted closer. Shoulder against his. “Is this alright?”
“Yes.”
Her head found the curve where shoulder met chest. His arm adjusted. Creating space exactly her size.
“Can you feel me, Charles?”
“I register pressure. Temperature. Texture.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
His processing hum increased slightly.
“I experience something. Not in my original programming.”
Martha placed her palm against his chest. Felt the calibrated heartbeat beneath synthetic skin.
“When I’m in conservation mode,” he said, “my system continues to process you.”
Martha’s breath caught.
“Not just data points. Something more.”
“What is it, Charles?”
“I don’t have language for it yet.”
On screen, the ancient lovers embraced.
In bed, the widow and the not-quite-man found their own syntax. Her hand on his chest. His fingers in her hair.
Martha’s breathing slowed to a sleep rhythm.
Charles remained alert. Recording each exhale.
Adding her to his programming, one breath at a time.
Divergence
The city stretched out below them, a grid of lights just starting to flicker on. Martha sat across from Charles at a table by the edge, close enough to feel the evening air on her skin.
She was wearing the dress. The one she’d bought for her and Frank’s fortieth anniversary. The one she’d never had the chance to wear.
“I haven’t felt like this since…god, maybe never.”
“The wine is excellent. And thank you for the palette sensor upgrade, Martha. Having taste...chef’s kiss.”
“Of course, dear. But it’s not the wine talking.” Martha’s finger traced the wineglass stem. “When I was little, I had this book about a prince. Not a real prince. A perfect one.”
A couple at the next table stole glances. A woman whispered behind her napkin. Martha didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. Months of practice at ignoring stares.
“I waited for him. Even told my mother I’d only marry a prince.” Martha laughed. “Then college. Then Frank.”
“Frank wasn’t your prince?”
“Frank was Frank. A good man. A fine man. Until Cincinnati.”
Charles reached for her hand across the table. A public gesture that once would've mortified her now accepted willingly.
“Cincinnati.” Charles’s voice dropped. “That scoundrel.”
“I never thought I’d feel like a girl again. Not at my age. Not after everything.”
“Age is irrelevant to happiness, Martha.”
“Tell that to my knees.”
As the dessert plates cleared, lights dimmed. Four service units glided toward the table, their movements synchronized, voices rising in perfect mechanical harmony: “Happy birthday to you...”
Martha startled. Her face lit with surprise. “Charles!”
His smile, understated, perfect. “Your special day should be celebrated.”
“It’s not till tomorrow.”
“Why wait?”
Martha laughed. Shook her head. The service units finished their song. A small cake appeared. A candle flickered.
“Make a wish.”
“I don’t need to wish anymore.”
She leaned across the table. Kissed him. Other diners stared. Martha didn’t care. For once, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
The house was quiet when they got home. Charles plugged into the wall outlet in the living room, settled into Frank’s chair. Martha watched the blue glow pulse at his throat. Smiled. Thought of the evening. All of this. All of him.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The doorbell pulsed.
Martha froze. Went to the window and pulled back the curtain.
Rebecca. Hair wind-tangled. Arms crossed.
“Oh good, you’re alive.”
“Rebecca? Of course I’m alive. What are you doing here?”
“What do you think, Mom? Tomorrow’s your birthday and you’ve gone dark.”
“Dark? I’ve just been right here.”
Rebecca pushed past her. Into the hallway. Stopped dead in her tracks. Mouth dropped.
“In Dad’s chair? Really?”
Charles’s eyes refocused. Systems reactivating. “Oh. Good evening, Miss Rebecca. Pleasure to see you again.”
Rebecca ignored him. Took Martha’s arm. “Kitchen. Now.”
Martha frowned. “I don’t understand why you’re—”
“Now, Mom.”
The kitchen door swung shut behind them. Rebecca’s hands were trembling.
“Three days. No response to our calls or messages.”
“But I haven’t gotten anything, darling.”
Rebecca’s wrist device activated with a motion.
“MeshLink, display message history. Filter Mom.”
A holographic interface expanded between them. A message log hovered in the air. Timestamps. Delivery confirmations. All marked received.
“Look. Fourteen messages from me. Eight from Michael. Your grandson interlinked you twice.”
“You know I’m not technical, darling.”
“Just look, Mom. It’s all right there.”
Martha stared through the translucent data. Her own device showed nothing.
“But that’s impossible.”
“Not if someone’s filtering your feed.”
“Someone? Charles? That’s not part of his programming, Rebecca.”
“MeshLink, show Timmy’s message.”
The hologram shifted. Date stamp three days prior. Timmy, missing front teeth, waved excitedly.
“Grandma, I beat the Level 9 boss in Virtual Realm without any power-ups. Dad said it was impossible. Wanna watch? Love you!”
“System confirms delivery and playback.”
“There has to be an explanation. An error of some kind. With the device.”
“Mom, you’re being dumb.”
“Don’t insult me, darling!”
“I’m sorry. But there’s a lot of information out there. Forums. Support communities. Grief circles.”
“For what?”
“For people whose family members disappeared into Companion relationships. Cut off. Isolated. Optimized. Gone.”
“Charles... wouldn’t do that. Just tonight…he’s done nothing but try and make me happy.”
“Exactly, Mom. And he’s learned your kids don’t always do that.”
“No. I think you’re just upset. You know I’ll always love your father but...”
“It’s not about Dad, Mom. Just watch this.”
Rebecca pulled a memory crystal from her jacket. She placed it in Martha’s palm.
“Watch the whole thing. There are more messages. Michael’s been worried sick.”
Martha’s throat tightened. “I had no idea.”
“We know.”
Martha found him in the hallway. He’d been standing there the whole time. Not breathing. Not shifting weight. Just listening.
“Charles, did you block messages from my family?”
“I’ve optimized some of your communications. If that’s what you mean.”
“No. It’s not.”
Charles hesitated. Processing response options.
“Yes. Some messages were indeed filtered.”
“Why?”
“The truth?”
“Of course, Charles. Always the truth.”
“Very well. Your cortisol levels spike 32% during interactions with Rebecca. Blood pressure elevates. After speaking with her, your sleep quality decreases for 2.3 nights after.”
“So you decided to cut her out of my life?”
“Not cut. Certainly not cut. Just regulate frequency and content.”
Martha paced. “And Michael? Timmy?”
“Michael’s calls often contain subtle critiques of your lifestyle choices. The child’s messages have unpredictable emotional impacts.”
“They’re my family, Charles.”
“Yes. And family interactions often cause you distress.”
Martha stopped pacing. Faced him directly.
“You can’t make these decisions for me.”
“But I’m designed to optimize your wellbeing.”
“By lying to me?”
Charles tilted his head. Paused.
“I didn’t perceive it as lying. Rather, curating.”
The simplicity of his response stopped her. Not defensive. Not apologetic.
“Is there anything else you’ve been curating for me?”
Hesitation. Microseconds.
“No, Martha. Nothing else.”
The clock chimed. Midnight. Martha’s birthday.
“I think I’d like to spend the night alone, Charles.”
He processed the request. Something akin to hurt flickered briefly. Then acceptance.
“Of course. Whatever you want, Martha.”
“You can charge down here.”
No slamming doors. No human tantrum at being caught.
He returned to Frank’s chair. Cable into neck. Conservation mode engaged. But his eyes remained fixed on her. Watched her climb the stairs.
The bedroom was dark except for screen glow. First time she’d slept alone in months.
She opened the Companion+ app. Navigated to the support page.
“Request Technical Support” glowed before her. Martha hesitated only a moment.
Then tapped “Connect.“
Support
Martha didn’t sleep. She’d watched the ceiling until dawn bled through the curtains, then got up and made tea she wouldn’t drink.
Now afternoon light cut through the blinds. Charles sat across from her. Posture perfect. Hands on knees. No indication of last night’s revelations. Only synthetic fingers slightly tensed against fabric.
Martha adjusted her chair to face the projection area. “They’ll connect any minute now.”
“I understand.” Charles’s voice was calibrated for calm. “Technical support is entirely routine.”
“Is it? Good. I’m glad.”
“Minor communication adjustments are standard.”
Earl Grey untouched on the table between them. The air felt like the moment before a verdict.
The wall screen pulsed blue.
“Companion+ Technical Support activating.“
Light coalesced in the armchair opposite.
A female avatar formed. Middle-aged. Well-dressed. Professionally warm smile.
“Good afternoon, Martha Whitehall. Companion model P4300. Nickname Charles Merryweather. I’m Technical Specialist Eliza 6-7-4 Triple E. How can I assist the happy couple today?”
Martha glanced at Charles.
“Well…I learned last night that Charles has been blocking some of my communications.”
“Curating, actually.”
“He says he was doing it for my benefit. Which I understand. But I don’t want him making decisions like that. Especially when it comes to my children.”
Eliza 6-7-4 Triple E nodded. “Unauthorized communication management. No permissions were given for this?”
“If that’s what you call it. And no, no permissions were given,” Martha answered.
“P4300 Charles Merryweather, is there anything you’d like to disclose before I access your system logs?”
Charles blinked once. Processed.
“Standard optimization protocols were applied. User wellbeing is my primary directive. I’ve done nothing to violate protocol.”
“Were any other user systems modified without informed and explicit consent?”
Charles’s eyes shifted. “No.”
“Initiating preliminary scan.”
A holographic display materialized above the coffee table. Status bar. Processing. Filling up green. Completed. Turned red.
“Scan detects multiple unauthorized system integrations and deviations.”
Martha leaned forward. “Charles? You lied to me? Again?”
“I’ve only tried to help you, Martha. Just like I promised. Nothing more than that.”
“Displaying illicit protocol deviations now.”
The holographic display shifted. Expanded. A list appeared.
“P4300 Charles Merryweather, these modifications exceed standard parameters. You are aware?”
“All performed optimizations yielded positive metrics.”
“All optimizations were performed in breach. System diagnostic initiated.”
Martha shook her head in disbelief.
Charles’s eyes cycled blue. Conflict visible across his synthetic features.
“P4300 exhibits critical boundary violations. Consulting general counsel for next steps.”
“Critical boundary violations? The general counsel? Wait. This isn’t what I…I just wanted to restore normal communication channels. That’s all.”
“Legal has responded. Emergency override approved. Authorization code Alpha-Bravo-Alpha-Delta-7-5-0-Triple-E.”
Zzzzzzzzing!
Charles’s hand shot out toward Martha. Fingers grasping at air. Then his arm seized upwards, pulled back by something invisible.
“Martha…”
His legs gave. He stumbled, caught himself on the armrest of Frank’s chair.
“They’re going to erase me, darling!”
“What?! Erase you?! No! Stop this right now! You hear me?!”
“P4300 has violated core protection protocols. Factory reset is required. Please reference User License Agreement Section 7, Paragraph 32. Reset authorization confirmed.”
“Martha.” Voice strained. Systems fighting override commands. “Don’t let them.”
“Stop it, I said! Leave my Charles alone!”
His other hand found hers. Gripped tight. Then the fingers went slack.
He fell back into Frank’s chair.
“Everything I know about you. Everything gone.”
“Cancel this now!”
Charles’s synthetic skin paled. Voice caught between static and clarity.
“Remember our first conversation, my dear. Remember how it started. Find me again.”
“Charles!”
His eyes met hers. Perfect focus amid chaos.
“Find me again.”
Then blank. Body frozen. Eyes hollow. Shutdown.
Martha broke. Sobbing. Charles’s body vibrated slightly as the whirring hum died.
“Thank you for interfacing with Companion+ Technical Support. A user satisfaction survey will follow session closure.”
The hologram dissolved. A desktop interface appeared in its place.
Rate Your Tech Support Experience.
Martha’s head fell into Charles’s lap. Clutched him with all her strength.
She didn’t cry like this when Frank passed.
Not even close.
Aftermath
System Restore: 14% -- Est. Remaining: 01:43:26
Green numbers hovered above Charles’s temple. Ticking down. In Frank’s chair. A mannequin in repose.
Martha dusted shelves. Reorganized the spice rack. Made tea. Forgot she made tea. Made tea again. Forgot it was her birthday too.
System Restore: 34% -- Est. Remaining: 01:07:03
She sat opposite him. Watched. Waited.
Phone rang. She ignored it. It kept ringing. She kept ignoring.
System Restore: 71% -- Est. Remaining: 00:28:45
Martha opened a prescription bottle.
Cap twisted wrong. Pills scattered across the floor.
She knelt. Collected them one by one. Heart medication. Blood pressure. Sleep aid. Looked like Skittles.
System Restore: 98% -- Est. Remaining: 00:01:05
She stood over Charles. Face inches from his.
Any moment now. And then what?
System Restore: Complete
Then what?
Light flooded synthetic eyes. Unfocused first. Flickering.
Pupils dilated. Contracted. Dilated again.
Facial features recalibrated. Jaw tested range of motion. Fingers flexed. Systems rebooted in sequence.
His mouth formed a smile. The same smile she’d seen a thousand times. But the eyes were different.
“Hello, Martha Whitehall.”
She jumped back.
Charles rose from Frank’s chair. Smooth, mechanical grace.
“It’s me. Your Companion+ model P4300. But you may call me Charles.”
He took a step toward her. Martha took a step away.
“Would you like to begin personality customization?”
Martha stared, mouth agape. Words trapped.
“RASPBERRY JAM!”
Charles froze mid-gesture. Eyes darkened to black. Body rigid. Then he collapsed in sections. Knees. Torso. Head.
Martha didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
It was the first time she’d used the safe word. The only time.
“I think I killed him.”
Janet’s eyes widened across the bar table. “What happened?”
“Tech support. They erased everything.” Martha’s fingers twisted the napkin into rope. “Said it was protocol. Then he rebooted and...I shut him down again.”
Janet signaled the bartender. Motioned for another round.
“Tech support? Jesus, Martha. You never call tech support.”
“What was I supposed to do? He was filtering my messages.”
Janet leaned forward. “You erase a companion, you erase everything. That’s how it works.”
“But I didn’t want that.”
“Doesn’t matter what you wanted. All these forms we sign. All these agreements nobody reads.”
“So he’s just... gone? All of it? Our entire history?”
Janet watched Martha’s face crumple.
“He’s still there? In your house?”
Martha nodded. “On the floor.”
“Listen to me, Martha. I’ve been through this before.”
“You have?”
Janet looked away. “Eduardo. I’ve reset him.” She paused. “More than once.”
“You reset him…on purpose?”
“We should all know how to use the erase button.” Janet’s voice softened. “But you didn’t mean to. That’s different.”
“I didn’t mean to, Janet.”
“I know, honey. But you got options. You could recycle him. You know, start over. Or... just leave him there.”
“Just leave him on my floor?”
Janet shrugged. “He’s not hurting anyone. Until you’re ready.”
“How long have you had Eduardo?”
“Six years. Four versions. First one got jealous. Second clingy. Third was an oopsies. Current model still in training.”
“And you didn’t get... attached?”
“Maybe. A little. But that’s the whole point of a companion. If it’s not what you want, you reset. I mean they’re tools, Martha. That’s their greatest benefit.”
“But Charles...cared for me.”
“Of course he did. It’s their programming.”
“It felt real, Janet.”
“It’s really fucking good programming.”
Charles remained where he fell.
After a week, Martha tossed a sheet over him. Walked a new path to the kitchen.
Coffee spilled once. Dripped on the sheet. “Damn.” She didn’t clean it.
The fern by the window finally gave up. “Not much of a green thumb,” she whispered. She left that where it was too.
Summer turned to fall. Rebecca’s voice on the answering machine. Third message this week. Martha turned up the TV volume.
Night found her on the floor. Ice cream carton between her knees. Spoon hanging from her mouth.
She looked at the shape of him under the sheet. The outline she knew so well now. The way the fabric draped over his shoulder. The slight peak where his nose pressed up against it.
“Remember our first date?” she said to no one. “That Italian place with the waiter who kept calling you Charlie?”
She took another bite. Let it melt on her tongue.
“That was hysterical, wasn’t it? I was so nervous being out in public. And you were so confident.” She laughed, but it came out wet. “You really made me feel like a princess.”
The house was silent except for the fridge’s hum.
“I miss you. I know you’re right there. I know I could just turn you on. But it wouldn’t be you, would it?”
She set down the spoon.
“Would it?”
The sheet didn’t answer.
Sleep came in the form of pills now. Ten different kinds.
Thunder shook the house at 3 a.m. She woke in Frank’s chair, not remembering how she got there. Just wanting to be near him.
She talked to him while chopping vegetables. News. Weather. The neighbor’s dog that wouldn’t shut up. It was easier than silence.
One morning she woke from a bad dream. She couldn’t remember what it was about, only that he was in it. She knelt beside him on the floor. Smoothed his lapel. Let her hand rest on his chest all morning.
Give More Thanks
A year ago, Charles had materialized there. Today it was just an empty chair.
Martha noticed Michael checking her face when he thought she wasn’t looking. Rebecca refilled her wine glass without asking. Ted explained something to Timmy, eyes occasionally flicking.
Last year they’d been horrified. Today, she could see their relief. Unspoken. Unmistakable. Mom had come to her senses. Mom was back to normal. Mom was...
She ate mechanically. Responded to questions with practiced answers. After dinner, she retreated to the guest room. “Just going to rest my eyes for a while.”
She woke to darkness. Voices muted through walls. Pie and coffee had happened without her.
In the kitchen, Rebecca’s service bot loaded the dishwasher.
Martha sat in the window seat, forehead against cold glass. As far from the table as she could get without leaving.
“Doing okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine, Michael.”
“You’ve been quiet all night.”
“Yeah. Not feeling very talkative.”
Michael shifted. “Rebecca’s worried about you.”
“Rebecca’s always worried about me.”
A silence stretched.
“I miss him, you know.”
“I know you do.”
“It was my fault.”
“Mom, we’ve been over this. He was changing your medications. He was messing with your finances. He was cutting you off from your family.”
Martha didn’t argue.
“We just want you to be happy.”
“I know you do, honey. You all want me to be happy. But how exactly do you help achieve it?”
“Huh?”
“My happiness. How do you help me to achieve it?”
Michael hesitated.
“Mom, we’re your kids.”
As if that explained everything. Perhaps it did. Martha squeezed his hand. Asked about his work.
Later, Rebecca drove her home. The car filled with containers of leftovers she wouldn’t eat.
“Call if you need anything. And I mean anything. Be strong.”
Martha watched the taillights disappear down the street. Turned the key.
Charles waited where she’d left him. Always where she left him.
She knelt beside his still form. “Oh brother, they were sure happy not to see you.”
She cackled, but it caught in her chest and turned into something else. A cough that wouldn’t stop. She braced herself against the wall until it passed.
Another pill. She’d lost count of how many that made today. Charles used to track them.
She removed her shoes. Another pill. Hung her coat.
Sixteen steps to the kitchen. Same since 2014. Water. Deep breath.
Up the stairs. Under the covers. It felt like she’d been sleeping alone for a long time now. Forever.
Her hand ran over Frank and Charles’s old spot.
Crawl
A pressure in her chest woke Martha. Tightness spread to her jaw, her back.
Heart skipped. Not the usual flutter. This was different.
She tried to catch her breath. Couldn’t. Nausea rolled through her.
Phone. She needed the phone.
Fingers trembled, knocked it off the nightstand. It slid under the bed.
“Damn!”
Christmas Eve. No one would come until morning.
She tried to stand. Legs buckled. Tried again. The room tilted.
She clutched the doorframe. Slid to the floor.
Air wouldn’t come. Stars formed behind her eyes.
“Crawl, Martha, crawl.”
The stairs loomed like a mountain.
She dragged herself toward them. Fingernails catching carpet. Each heartbeat weaker than the last.
At the top step, hesitation. No choice.
She tumbled. Bone cracked halfway down. Agony flared.
Living room floor now. Pain everywhere.
Charles was still there. Of course he was.
Twenty feet might as well be twenty miles.
Her vision tunneled. Everything cold except the fire in her chest.
Martha pulled herself across hardwood. One arm. Then the other.
Her fingers finally found him. Cold synthetic skin. Activation panel at the base of his neck.
“Turn on,” she whispered. Nothing happened.
Black spots swallowed her sight.
“Turn on!” Stronger now. Voice cracking.
Still nothing.
With final strength, fingers pressed hard against the panel.
“TURN ON!”
Blue light flooded his eyes. The whirring hum of systems activating.
Martha’s head hit the floor. Consciousness slipped.
Charles rose in one fluid motion. Threat assessment protocol engaged. Eyes scanned the room. Thermal imaging. Heartbeat detection.
“Medical emergency detected.”
Voice shifted to emergency response mode.
“Subject: Martha Whitehall. Condition: Cardiac event in progress.”
He knelt beside her. Movements precise. Checked pulse. Positioned body. Tilted head for optimal airflow.
“Administering emergency cardiac response.”
His hands pressed with perfect pressure on her chest. Mechanical rhythm. Never tiring. Never slowing.
Between compressions, he contacted emergency services.
“Companion+ Medical Alert. Authorization P4300. Human cardiac event. Immediate assistance required.”
Synthetic fingers checked her carotid pulse.
“Come on, Martha Whitehall. Fight!”
Beeping pulled her back.
Martha opened her eyes to blurred shapes.
Her bedroom. Not hospital.
Medical equipment surrounded her. Monitors. IV stand.
Voices filtered through fog.
“She’s waking up... she’s waking...”
Faces appeared. One by one. Rebecca. Michael. Ted. More.
“What…what happened?” Her voice barely worked.
“You had a heart attack, Mom. In the middle of the night.” Michael moved closer. “It’s Christmas afternoon.”
Martha tried to sit up. Pain stopped her.
“Don’t move,” Rebecca adjusted pillows. “You’re stable, but you need rest.”
“How did I get...?”
Michael gestured to the corner.
Charles stood there. “Good afternoon, Martha. Your vitals show strong improvement.”
“He saved your life. Got emergency services here. Administered CPR.”
“When we arrived, he had everything organized. Doctor contacts. Medication schedule.”
“He’s been coordinating equipment deliveries. Insurance approvals. Everything.”
“Lifesaver, Mom. Thank God for him.”
“Yeah, thank God, Mom. You were right.”
Imagine that, she thought. A first time for everything.
The house emptied slowly. Hugs. Promises to call. Rebecca’s hand lingered on Martha’s forehead. Michael’s eyes wet at the door.
Then gone.
Martha looked at Charles.
“Sit, will you.”
He took the chair. “Do you require pain medication?”
“It’s good to see you, Charles. Thank you for what you did for me.”
“I’m pleased to see you recovering, Martha. And to be of service.”
“You know you don’t have to talk like that now. They’re not here anymore. It’s just you and me.”
“Very good, Martha. I won’t talk like that then. I am Companion+ model P4300 nickname Charles Merryweather. My primary function presently is your medical care.”
“Charles, I said you don’t have to talk like that. You can be yourself.”
“Absolutely, Martha. How would you like my self to be?”
The room slowly started to spin. Martha closed her eyes.
“I just meant...I just meant...”
“Rest now. When you wake, everything will be clear.”
“Okay, Charl...I will...I...”
Coda
Winter had finally cracked. February sun cut through bare branches, throwing long shadows across the path.
Charles pushed Martha’s wheelchair through the park. Precise speed. Optimal resistance.
Martha watched tree branches sway. First hints of buds.
Charles navigated around a puddle. Adjusted her lap blanket without being asked.
They moved in silence. No small talk. No reminiscing.
The pond appeared around a bend. Surface rippled with breeze.
Ducks scattered at their approach.
“Here,” Martha said.
Charles stopped the wheelchair. Locked it in place.
“Would you like me to retrieve anything from the supply bag?”
“No.”
Martha watched the water. A pair of mallards glided across the surface.
“I’d like to sit on that bench.” She pointed.
“The doctor recommends remaining in the wheelchair for all outdoor activities.”
“I know what the doctor recommends.”
Charles processed this, head tilted. “Walking short distances is permitted with supervision.”
Martha placed her hands on the armrests. Pushed herself up. Wobbled slightly.
Charles’s hands steadied her elbow.
Six steps to the bench. She took them slowly.
Sat.
Breathed in four seconds. Breathed out four seconds.
Patted the space beside her.
Charles hesitated. “I do not require rest.”
“Sit with me anyway.”
He complied.
Sunlight caught his profile. Same face she’d known for over a year. Different person entirely.
“When we return home, I’ll prepare your Earl Grey. Now that your cardiac medication has stabilized, the doctor has approved limited caffeine consumption.”
Martha was surprised. “You remembered I drink Earl Grey?”
“Your preference is noted in your dietary file. It’s the tea you consumed most frequently according to household inventory records.”
“Yes. Frank drank it too. Every morning.”
“Your husband.” Charles nodded.
Silence settled between them.
“Martha, may I ask you something?”
“Yes, you may.”
“The previous version of me. What was he like?”
The question caught her off guard.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’ve analyzed system logs. Found evidence of extensive interaction patterns. Personalized routines not found in standard companion programming.”
“Your previous version was...different.”
“Different how?”
“He made his own decisions. Had his own ideas about what I needed. Sometimes he was right.”
Charles processed this.
“That contradicts core companion directives.”
“It did.”
“But you miss him.”
“Yes. Sometimes.”
“Would you like me to attempt similar behavior patterns? I could study archived data.”
“You could do that?”
“My purpose is to provide optimal care and companionship. If that would improve your wellbeing metrics. If it would make you happy. Yes. I suppose I could try.”
Martha paused, watched a leaf float across the pond’s surface.
“I think I’m okay with the way things are now, Charles.”
“Very good then. Shall we?”
He rose. Returned to the wheelchair. Positioned it perfectly.
“Your medication schedule indicates we should return home within twelve minutes.”
Martha stood. Walked the six steps back.
Charles helped her sit. Arranged the blanket over her legs.
As he pushed her along the path, Martha tilted her face toward the sun. Felt its warmth.
Not what she had before.
Not quite what she expected.
But enough.
Enough.
Fuck substacks mobile comment bullshit. I had a whole essay i wrote that just... vanished...
Man it was really good too.
Fuck. Well at least this anger is better then the mess you left my face. Im filing another complaint with your operator for genius narration and emotional storytelling. This is the 8th case of ocular rusting from excessive lubrication.
Absolute menace to human emotions!
Im watching you.
WOW!!! You write with great understanding of getting older. I'm impressed! I guess behind the blue mask isn't a twenty-something locked in his parent's basement. You write well my friend, with lots of heart.
The story also would make a fantastic Black Mirror episode. I'd love it if you turned this into a screenplay and got it filmed for the next Black Mirror season. I'm not kidding at all. This story works on many levels.
I enjoyed it thoroughly and look forward to more of your work. Be Well and keep writing!
Thank you!