Echoes of You

The evening light slanted through half-drawn blinds as Daniel pushed open the door to their apartment, grocery bags rustling against his hip.

"Hey," Sara called from the living room. "You're back earlier than I expected."

"Traffic was light for once." He set the bags on the kitchen counter. "Did you finish your article?"

"Just submitted it," she said. "Three thousand words on digital legacy rights. My editor better appreciate the irony of me missing dinner with her to finish it."

Daniel smiled sadly as he unpacked the groceries. This was their old rhythm—her voice carrying from the other room, him responding as he moved through familiar motions. Six years together had created these comfortable patterns, now artificially maintained through technology.

"I got those cherries you like," he said. "The dark ones from the farmers market."

"The ones that stain everything they touch? You're brave."

He laughed. "I also grabbed ingredients for risotto. Thought we could stay in tonight."

"Perfect timing. I've been craving your risotto all week," Sara said. "Need any help?"

"I've got it. Pour yourself a glass of wine. The Barolo's already open on the counter."

Daniel chopped onions and measured arborio rice, listening to Sara humming softly to herself—a habit she'd had since they met. The familiar melody of "Blackbird" drifted through the apartment.

"Your mom called again," Sara said after a moment. "She wanted to know if we're coming for Thanksgiving."

Daniel's knife paused over the cutting board. "What did you tell her?"

"That we haven't decided yet. I figured you'd want to talk about it first."

He nodded, though she couldn't see him. "Thanks. It's complicated with Dad still not speaking to me."

"Four months is a long time to hold a grudge."

"That's short by Richardson family standards," Daniel said, resuming his chopping. "Remember how long Uncle Frank and Aunt Judith didn't speak after the beach house incident?"

"Three years," Sara said, laughing. "Over a seashell collection."

"It was a very important seashell collection."

The rice sizzled as it hit the pan. Daniel stirred methodically, adding ladlefuls of warm stock as the grains absorbed the liquid.

"Hey, remember that night in Prague?" Sara asked suddenly. "The one where we got caught in that thunderstorm?"

Daniel smiled at the memory. "How could I forget? You were wearing that blue dress that got completely soaked through."

"And we ducked into that tiny bar with the jazz quartet."

"The bartender who kept making us those weird drinks he wouldn't name."

"And you tried to order in Czech and somehow asked for a plate of curtains."

They both laughed, the sound filling the space between them. These shared memories were the architecture of their relationship—load-bearing walls that had weathered storms and sunshine alike.

"I found that photo of us from that night," Sara said. "The one that waiter took. It's a bit blurry, but I love how happy we look."

Daniel stirred the risotto, adding butter and parmesan. "Where did you find it? I thought we lost those Prague photos when your phone died."

"It was in that folder on your old laptop. The one labeled 'backup-important.'"

"I forgot about that," Daniel said, trying to recall the folder. "What else was in there?"

"Just some old emails, photos. Our text conversations from when you were in Boston for that conference." A pause. "I read some of them. Hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay. No secrets between us, remember?"

"I remember," she said softly.

Daniel plated the risotto, adding a sprig of thyme. He carried the dish to the living room, where Sara's holographic form sat on the couch, an image of her with legs tucked beneath her, dark hair falling over her shoulder, reading glasses perched on her nose. The familiar sight of her still made his heart skip, even as part of him registered the slight transparency around her edges.

"That smells amazing," she said. "You always make the best risotto."

"Wine's good with it," Daniel said, settling on the couch with his plate. He ate in silence for a few minutes, glancing occasionally at Sara's form beside him.

"I've been thinking," Sara began, her simulated gaze fixed on a point where a plate might have been. "About that house in Vermont."

Daniel looked up. "The one with the red door? Near Lake Champlain?"

"That's the one. It's still for sale. Price dropped last week."

"How do you know that?"

"I set up alerts," she said. "After we saw it last fall. I know we said the timing wasn't right, but maybe we should reconsider."

Daniel set down his fork. "Sara, we talked about this. We can't afford that house right now."

"But with your promotion and my new freelance contracts—"

"It's not just about money. It's about where we want to be in five years. You were the one who said you weren't ready to leave the city."

Sara was quiet for a moment. "People change their minds."

"Not that quickly. Last month you were talking about applying for that fellowship in London."

"I've been reconsidering priorities," she said, her voice soft. "Thinking about what matters."

Daniel studied her face. Something felt off, but he couldn't place it. "Are you okay? You seem different lately."

"Different how?"

"I don't know. More nostalgic, maybe."

"Is that bad?"

"No," he said carefully. "Just... unexpected."

He finished eating in silence. Daniel took his plate to the kitchen. When he returned, Sara's projection had moved to the window and was looking out at the city lights.

"Remember our first night in this apartment?" she asked without turning around.

"We had no furniture except a mattress and those camping chairs," Daniel said, smiling at the memory. "And we ate pizza on the floor and made shadow puppets with that weird lamp your sister gave us."

"You said it was perfect just like that. That we didn't need anything else."

"I meant it," he said. "Still do."

She turned to him then, her expression unreadable. "Daniel, there's something I need to tell you."

His phone rang, cutting through the moment. He glanced at the screen. "It's the hospital. I need to take this."

Sara nodded, turning back to the window as he answered.

"Dr. Fineman's office is calling about your grief counseling appointment tomorrow," the receptionist said. "She needed to move you from 4:00 PM to 5:30. Will that work with your schedule?"

Daniel walked into the bedroom, lowering his voice. "Yes, that's fine."

"Great. And how are you doing with the Sara program? Is it helping with the transition?"

His eyes drifted to the photograph on the nightstand—Sara at the lake last summer, laughing into the camera. The last vacation they'd taken before the accident.

"It's... helpful," he said. "Sometimes too convincing."

"That's to be expected with the amount of data you provided. Text messages, emails, photos, videos—our AI has a very complete picture of her speech patterns and memories." The receptionist's voice softened. "But remember, Dr. Fineman recommends using it as a transitional tool, not a permanent replacement."

"I know," Daniel said, feeling the familiar hollow ache in his chest. "I'm working on it."

After ending the call, he stood in the bedroom doorway, watching Sara—or rather, the holographic projection of her consciousness, reconstructed from years of digital communications. The program couldn't create new memories, only recombine existing ones in convincing ways. It couldn't truly evolve or change. It had no physical presence—couldn't eat, couldn't touch, couldn't truly share space with him beyond the visual and audio simulation.

But sometimes, in moments like tonight, the illusion was perfect enough to ease the unbearable weight of her absence.

"Everything okay?" the Sara simulation asked, turning from the window.

"Yes," Daniel said, crossing the room to rejoin her. "Everything's fine."

Tomorrow he would face reality again. But tonight, he would allow himself this echo of what once was—this digital ghost programmed to remember their life together, down to the smallest details of their shared history.

"You were saying something," he prompted. "Before the phone rang."

"Was I?" she smiled. "I forget now. Must not have been important."

Daniel nodded, knowing the system had simply reached the limits of its programming, unable to improvise beyond what it could extrapolate from existing data. These small glitches—these moments of computational uncertainty—were the only real reminders that she wasn't really Sara.

"It's getting late," he said. "Shall we watch something?"

"How about that documentary about Prague we never finished?"

Daniel smiled sadly. "Perfect choice."

He sat on the couch, the holographic projection of Sara appearing beside him as he started the documentary. In the half-light of their apartment, with the familiar voice and image of her so carefully rendered, the boundary between memory and technology blurred—not because the illusion was perfect, but because his grief made him willing to accept the simulation, if only for tonight.

This collection of short stories uses AI to explore technology and security in a more engaging and accessible way. Each narrative transforms complex ideas into relatable human experiences. By harnessing artificial intelligence as a collaborative storytelling tool, the collection re-imagines how we explore and illustrate potential outcomes of technology, security, and social issues.