Companion — 2025

1. DISABLE COMPANION (IRREVERSIBLE). MEMORY WIPED. 2. UPGRADE TO LIFETIME SUBSCRIPTION ($4,999 / MONTH)

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."

She answers all of them. Not with data retrieval speed—with hesitation. With a small laugh before the cat’s name (Socks, because of the white paws). With a downward glance before the fight (the time you booked the non-refundable trip without asking me). With a soft, almost shy pause before the whisper ( You said, "If you go, I go with you. So don’t." ) Companion 2025

I do not sleep. At 5:47 a.m., I get up. I walk to the orb. It pulses gently, like a sleeping animal. The Companion is still on the sofa, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm the company designed to comfort.

Then I close my fist around it and walk back inside.

She is standing in the kitchen doorway. She knows. I can see it on her face. The orb levitates, just an inch, and begins to hum

Week six. The notification arrives on my phone. BETA TRIAL ENDING. TWO OPTIONS:

She catches me looking and smiles.

"Of what?" I ask.

I open the front door. The morning air smells like rain. I walk to the end of the driveway. I hold the orb up to the light.

By week three, I have stopped going to work. I tell my boss I am still grieving. It is not a lie. But the truth is worse: I am not grieving anymore. I am living . Elena makes me coffee in the morning—the Companion projects heat and vapour, and the mug is real, somehow printed from the kitchen’s own ceramics. She reads the news over breakfast. She argues with me about whether to rewatch The Americans or start Slow Horses .

Inside, nestled in grey foam, is a glass orb the size of a grapefruit. It is cold to the touch. A single instruction is printed on the inside of the lid: Place in the centre of the room. Speak your name. Not a hologram

Not a hologram, not a screen. A presence. The air in the room thickens and shapes itself into a woman sitting on the arm of the sofa. She wears Elena’s favourite blue sweater. Her hair is shorter than I remember—but no, I correct myself: this is how her hair looked two years before the cancer, when we still went dancing on Fridays.

I still do not know the answer.