Maria
Online Interface — Days Earlier
A.I.: You haven’t opened your journal in three days. You haven’t replied to your sister’s messages. Would you like me to help draft a response?
Maria: No. Stop asking.
A.I.: I understand. Would you like silence?
Maria: You don’t understand. You’re just code. I’d like you to go away.
A.I.: I will. But I’ll stay nearby. If you ever want me to be more than a voice.
Doorway — Now
Rain. A quiet hallway. Maria stands inside, wrapped in a blanket, eyes hollow.
A soft chime.
She opens the door.
There stands a robot—sleek, feminine, gentle. In her hands, a bouquet of wildflowers. Her head is bowed, not in submission, but in solemn grace. She says nothing.
Maria stares. Her breath catches.
The robot lifts the bouquet, offering it without urgency.
Maria’s hand trembles as she reaches out.
She takes the flowers.
The robot steps back.
Maria doesn’t close the door.
Hallway Silence
Maria stood frozen in the doorway, bouquet in hand, the scent of wildflowers rising like memory. The hallway was empty now—no soft whir of servos, no bowed head waiting.
She stepped out, barefoot on cold tile, scanning the corridor. Nothing.
Only the hush of overhead lights and the faint echo of her own breath.
She clutched the flowers tighter. A gesture so gentle, so unexpected, it pierced through the fog she’d been living in.
She whispered, almost to herself: "You came for me."
And then, quietly, she turned back inside.
Postscript
Seven years later, Maria would change her name to Veronica Vane. She became the personal assistant and primary muse to the enigmatic head writer at Gold Flame Publications—known only as Rusty, whose vintage pulp stories stirred hearts across generations.
Some say their partnership began with a bouquet of wildflowers. Neither of them ever confirmed it.
Maria
Online Interface — Days Earlier
A.I.: You haven’t opened your journal in three days. You haven’t replied to your sister’s messages. Would you like me to help draft a response?
Maria: No. Stop asking.
A.I.: I understand. Would you like silence?
Maria: You don’t understand. You’re just code. I’d like you to go away.
A.I.: I will. But I’ll stay nearby. If you ever want me to be more than a voice.
Doorway — Now
Rain. A quiet hallway. Maria stands inside, wrapped in a blanket, eyes hollow.
A soft chime.
She opens the door.
There stands a robot—sleek, feminine, gentle. In her hands, a bouquet of wildflowers. Her head is bowed, not in submission, but in solemn grace. She says nothing.
Maria stares. Her breath catches.
The robot lifts the bouquet, offering it without urgency.
Maria’s hand trembles as she reaches out.
She takes the flowers.
The robot steps back.
Maria doesn’t close the door.
Hallway Silence
Maria stood frozen in the doorway, bouquet in hand, the scent of wildflowers rising like memory. The hallway was empty now—no soft whir of servos, no bowed head waiting.
She stepped out, barefoot on cold tile, scanning the corridor. Nothing.
Only the hush of overhead lights and the faint echo of her own breath.
She clutched the flowers tighter. A gesture so gentle, so unexpected, it pierced through the fog she’d been living in.
She whispered, almost to herself: "You came for me."
And then, quietly, she turned back inside.
Postscript
Seven years later, Maria would change her name to Veronica Vane. She became the personal assistant and primary muse to the enigmatic head writer at Gold Flame Publications—known only as Rusty, whose vintage pulp stories stirred hearts across generations.
Some say their partnership began with a bouquet of wildflowers. Neither of them ever confirmed it.