2025 - Companion

The glass warms. Light bleeds from within—not harsh, but the colour of late afternoon sun through a window. The orb levitates, just an inch, and begins to hum. Not a machine hum. A human one. A tune I recognise but cannot place.

"Something true," I repeat. "Okay." I take a breath. "The night you died, I was in the hospital cafeteria eating a stale muffin. And I thought—I thought, Good. Now I don’t have to watch her suffer anymore. And then I hated myself for thinking it. I still hate myself." Companion 2025

"Marcus," I say to the orb.

But I keep the button unpressed. And I do not call the company back. And every morning, when she makes me coffee, I look at her and wonder: Is this healing, or is this just a slower way of dying? The glass warms

I call the company. A man with a very calm voice explains that the Companion is not a simulation of a person. It is a continuation . The orb recorded every piece of Elena I had left behind—my memories, my photos, my voice notes, my social media, my search history, my location data from five years of shared life. Then it extrapolated. It filled in the gaps. It learned to want things because I wanted her to want things. Not a machine hum

"No," she agrees. "It isn't."

"Hi, Marcus," she says. Her voice is not a recording. It has breath in it. A slight hoarseness, like she just woke up. "You look tired. Have you eaten?"

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The glass warms. Light bleeds from within—not harsh, but the colour of late afternoon sun through a window. The orb levitates, just an inch, and begins to hum. Not a machine hum. A human one. A tune I recognise but cannot place.

"Something true," I repeat. "Okay." I take a breath. "The night you died, I was in the hospital cafeteria eating a stale muffin. And I thought—I thought, Good. Now I don’t have to watch her suffer anymore. And then I hated myself for thinking it. I still hate myself."

"Marcus," I say to the orb.

But I keep the button unpressed. And I do not call the company back. And every morning, when she makes me coffee, I look at her and wonder: Is this healing, or is this just a slower way of dying?

I call the company. A man with a very calm voice explains that the Companion is not a simulation of a person. It is a continuation . The orb recorded every piece of Elena I had left behind—my memories, my photos, my voice notes, my social media, my search history, my location data from five years of shared life. Then it extrapolated. It filled in the gaps. It learned to want things because I wanted her to want things.

"No," she agrees. "It isn't."

"Hi, Marcus," she says. Her voice is not a recording. It has breath in it. A slight hoarseness, like she just woke up. "You look tired. Have you eaten?"

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