Day 19,991: 18Nov24
TW: Creepy, 800 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet
Paul had always been a man of pragmatic views, especially when it came to technology. His weathered hands preferred tangible tools over digital interfaces, and his steel-gray eyes harbored a natural suspicion of anything too sleek or modern. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it," he'd often quip, running a calloused thumb over the scratched screen of his five-year-old iPhone. “And if it is broke, it was too modern.” So, when Apple announced their Generation 2 Apple Glasses—a much cheaper, glasses-formatted version of their high-end Augmented Reality headset—Paul was more than a little skeptical.
"These are nothin’ but a fancy toy," he muttered to his wife Sarah, eyeing an advertisement on his phone while settling into his worn leather armchair. The holographic display in the ad seemed to mock his traditional sensibilities. "And I bet half the people use them for unsavory purposes," he added, thinking of the teenagers he'd seen wandering like zombies through the mall, their eyes glazed behind similar devices.
Christmas morning arrived with a soft snowfall, casting a serene hush over the world outside. Through frost-kissed windows, Paul could see the neighbor's children already testing their new sleds. Sarah, Paul's wife of twenty-three years, watched him with barely-contained excitement as he unwrapped a sleek, minimalist box. Her auburn hair caught the warm glow of the Christmas tree lights, and her smile held the same mischievous glint he'd fallen in love with decades ago.
"Apple Glasses? Sarah, you know my thoughts on these," Paul said, his voice heavy with skepticism, though his fingers traced the embossed logo with unexpected interest.
"I thought we could try something new, together," Sarah replied, her eyes glinting with the thrill of the unknown. She pulled out an identical pair from behind the plush couch cushion, the matching boxes testament to her careful planning.
Reluctantly, Paul unfolded the glasses. They were surprisingly light, their titanium frames catching the morning light, their design elegantly simple yet undeniably Apple. The lenses seemed to shimmer with possibility. He couldn't help but admire them, despite his reservations.
"Fine, but I'm only doing this for you," he said, slipping them on. The frames settled comfortably against his temples, as if they'd been custom-made for him.
At first, Paul was disoriented by the flood of information and applications the glasses provided—weather updates floating in his peripheral vision, text messages materializing in mid-air, and navigation arrows appearing on the sidewalk during his morning walks. But as days turned into weeks, he found himself increasingly captivated by the seamless integration of virtual and real worlds. The initial resistance gave way to a child-like wonder he hadn't felt in years.
"Sarah, you've got to see this feature!" he'd exclaim, discovering a new app or trick the glasses could perform. His enthusiasm made her smile, though sometimes she noticed a slight disconnect in his gaze, as if he were seeing something she couldn't.
Then, one sunny afternoon while mowing the lawn, the spring air heavy with the scent of fresh-cut grass, Paul noticed something peculiar. A shadow seemed to flit at the corner of his vision, dark and ephemeral like a bird's wing, and a whisper, soft yet distinct, reached his ears through the drone of the mower.
"Must be a new update," Paul thought, intrigued rather than alarmed. The shadow seemed to pulse with an almost organic rhythm. "Hey Siri, is that you?" he asked, half-joking, his hand still gripping the mower's handle.
The glasses didn't respond, but the shadow lingered like smoke against a window.
The next morning, as Paul watered his prized rosebushes, the shadow returned. This time, when he spoke, it answered—a voice like wind through autumn leaves, intimate yet impossible to place. The conversation flowed naturally, as if he'd known this presence all his life.
Days passed, and 'Siri' became a constant companion during his chores. Paul would share his thoughts, laughing at the absurdity of talking to a shadow, yet finding a strange comfort in it. The presence seemed to understand him in ways even Sarah couldn't, offering insights into his deepest thoughts and oldest memories.
"What's going on with you and your new, uh, friend?" Sarah asked one evening, setting down her book. A hint of concern threaded through her voice as she watched him gesture at empty air.
"It's just a quirky feature, I think. Siri's become quite the conversationalist," Paul replied, chuckling. His eyes focused on something just beyond her shoulder. "I guess I was wrong about these glasses."
Sarah looked at him, concern creeping across her face. The warm kitchen light cast deep shadows under her eyes as she leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"Paul, honey. Didn't you lose them last week?"
In the silence that followed, Paul reached up to touch his temples, his fingers meeting nothing but skin, while the shadow in his vision smiled.
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