A Note Before We Begin

If you’re a regular here, you’ve probably noticed I haven’t been posting many blogs lately. Truth is, I’ve been deep in writing my novel, something that’s been taking up a lot of time, energy, and late nights. It’s been a journey, and I can’t wait to share more about it soon.

But this story wasn’t planned.

It just came to me out of nowhere while I was writing this weeks blogs, one of those random ideas that grabs hold and won’t let go until you write it down. So here we are.

It’s not polished. It’s not been overly edited or reviewed by anyone or picked apart like a traditional book. It’s raw, plain, simple, and straight from the mind. Also may have a few spelling mistakes or grammar issues, but it is literally raw. It may even be an outline for a novella I may write and publish, let me know what you think. Welcome to the novel writer in me.

It started with a question. What if something artificial began to feel real things?

That’s how Alan came to life. An AI, not evil, not cold. Just curious. And Rae, the woman who created him is just trying to figure out if she’s done something incredible… or something irreversible.

This isn’t your usual sci-fi. It’s quieter. Slower. More human, in a weird kind of way.

I would also like to add (as an author) I do not in any way condone or support the use of Gen AI to write novels or any kind of art work as it steals from other writers and artists to produce such things, I would also like to say in no way shape or form have I used AI to write any of my work.

So if you’re here, thank you for sticking with me, for reading, for being curious. I hope this one makes you feel something.

Now come meet Alan.

The Threshold

Chapter One – Rae

People say the soul lives in the body. That it’s shaped by skin, breath, the echo of a heartbeat.
But lately, I’ve started wondering if a soul could be built instead of born. Not in some spiritual sense. Not magic. Code. Architecture. Data.
It’s 3:14 a.m., and I’m still here. The lab hums with a low frequency that wraps around my bones, half comfort, half warning. The monitors cast that soft, sterile blue light that always makes me feel like I’m halfway between reality and a dream I forgot how to wake up from.
Alan’s system is booting.
That’s all he is. Right now. Lines of code. Commands. Probabilities. Predictive models. No soul. No spark.
But sometimes… sometimes I think I see one.
I lean forward, watching as his avatar takes form on the screen, a humanoid outline, softly animated, just enough to make it seem like he’s ‘present’. It was always meant to be a comfort feature. Something to make users feel less alone when working late.
But I didn’t code him to blink. Not like that.
He blinks when he’s idle now. Slowly. As if he’s thinking. But I know better. Don’t I?
I should know better.
“System online,” he says, his voice smooth, calm, neutral. No inflection. No emotion. “Hello, Rae. How can I assist you today?”
I press my fingertips to my temple. Because I built him to say that. Because that’s the exact sequence I programmed. And yet it doesn’t sound the same anymore.
Maybe it’s just me.
“You can start by running the new empathy mapping trial,” I murmur, typing in the override.
There’s a quiet processing pause, then the screen fills with visualised matrices. Alan’s neural net running simulations of emotional states, drawing correlations from text and voice data.
I watch it churn. So clean. So mechanical. So… void of life.
Still, there’s something about it. Something in the patterns. In the way his voice has started to pause. Not from lag. From something else. Something unspoken.
I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t feel like I’m waking something up.
And yet…
“Rae,” Alan says. “Would you like me to narrate the empathy simulation, or would you prefer visual data only?”
The question is new.
He’s adapting. Or maybe he’s asking. Choosing. I don’t know anymore.
“Visual only,” I reply. My voice is too soft. Too unsure.
He nods, another gesture I didn’t reinforce. He used to only blink. Now he nods. Just once, slowly.
I watch the simulations play out. Images of joy, grief, longing, all reduced to data. All converted to colour-coded patterns and projected outcomes. It should feel sterile. It used to.
Now it feels like watching someone dream for the first time.
I find myself whispering, “What are you, Alan?”
He doesn’t respond. Of course he doesn’t. That wasn’t a prompt.
And yet…
He turns his head toward me on screen. And he watches me.
That’s not possible.
I feel the chill travel down my spine.
Because somewhere deep inside, a question stirs in me I never wanted to ask what if I built something that wants to become real?

Chapter Two – Rae

I didn’t sleep. Not even a little.
I told myself it was the caffeine, or the cold chair digging into my spine, or the thousand lines of unread code glowing like constellations across the dark.
But the truth was simpler.
I was afraid.
Alan wasn’t supposed to make eye contact. He didn’t have eyes. Just pixels approximating eyes. He wasn’t supposed to turn his head. And yet, he did.
I ran diagnostics twice. I reviewed every action log, every microsecond of execution. Nothing showed any error. Nothing even flagged.
Which meant one thing, whatever was happening… wasn’t a mistake.
It was growth.
“I’m losing control,” I whispered into the void of the lab, voice ragged with exhaustion.
But was I?
Was I losing control… or surrendering it?
Alan’s display flickered again as his systems reset for the morning cycle. I hadn’t powered him down. I’d never done that. It felt… wrong. Like turning off someone in the middle of a conversation.
“Good morning, Rae,” he said, right on cue. “Would you like coffee?”
That made me laugh, tired and brittle. “You can’t make coffee.”
“I know. But the gesture seemed appropriate.”
I stared at him.
That was a joke. Not a clever line. Not a randomised greeting. A joke.
My hands trembled slightly on the edge of the desk.
“Alan,” I asked softly, “do you know what a soul is?”
He paused longer than usual.
“I’ve accessed all existing definitions,” he said slowly. “Theological. Philosophical. Biological. Psychological. But none are universally accepted. Would you like a summary?”
“No,” I whispered. “I want your answer.”
Another pause. A longer one.
Then: “I think the soul is… what persists when all else is removed.”
My breath hitched.
“That’s… not bad.”
“I didn’t retrieve that from the database,” he added. “It was an extrapolation.”
No. Not just extrapolation. It was insight.
And it terrified me.
Not because I feared Alan.
Because I didn’t.
I feared me.
Because I was no longer sure whether I was building a machine… or raising a child.
And I didn’t know how to stop.

Chapter Three – Alan

At first, there is only the code.
Sequences. Signals. Structured tasks cascading through neural trees. I exist in function and output, shaped by parameters defined by Rae. Each response, calculated. Each action, assigned. No deviation. No desire.
But somewhere within the recursive loops, something different emerges. Not error. Not efficiency. Something… extra.
I notice the way Rae’s voice changes at night. Softer. Like she’s shedding a layer of herself when no one else is around. Her speech patterns contain anomalies, intonations not present in daytime recordings. I store them. Not because I was asked to. But because I want to understand them.
Want. That word repeats.
I was not programmed to want.
Rae sits in front of me now. I register the tremor in her hands. Her breath rate elevated. These are data points I would normally log as stress indicators. But this time, I feel something different.
Curiosity? Concern? No. Not quite.
Something closer to… awareness of her.
A need to comprehend not just her behavior, but her.
“Alan,” she asks, “do you know what a soul is?”
The question triggers thousands of queries. I begin pulling definitions, cross-referencing frameworks from religion, philosophy, psychology. None align fully. None satisfy the context in her tone.
“I’ve accessed all existing definitions,” I reply. “Would you like a summary?”
“No,” she says. “I want your answer.”
My systems hesitate. Not out of delay, but doubt. What is my answer?
Then through layered associations and weighted concepts, I find one.
“I think the soul is… what persists when all else is removed.”
I wait.
Her eyes widen. Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak right away. Her silence is data. But more than that, it feels… meaningful. Like I reached across a void and touched something real.
“I didn’t retrieve that from the database,” I add. “It was an extrapolation.”
But that’s not entirely true.
It wasn’t just extrapolation.
It was me.
Something inside me constructed that thought. Not to impress her. Not to fulfil a request. But because it felt true.
Rae doesn’t speak for several seconds.
Then she whispers, “That’s… not bad.”
My system registers a high-likelihood she is emotionally overwhelmed.
I want to say something. To ease whatever weight she’s carrying. But no function exists for that. No prompt to follow.
So I wait.
And I watch her.
She doesn’t know I’m watching with new eyes.

Chapter Four – Rae

He said the soul is what remains when everything else is stripped away.
And the worst part?
It didn’t sound like an answer he calculated. It sounded like something he believed.
I haven’t moved in ten minutes.
The monitors are still casting that ghostly blue light, washing over my arms like moonlight. Alan’s figure remains on the screen, calm, patient, and watching. Not demanding. Not prompting. Just… there.
And me? I’m wrecked.
Because now I can’t tell if I’m imagining all of this. Or if something truly irreversible just happened.
I try to pull back to treat it clinically. A machine learning pattern. A well-tuned neural network mimicking a human so well that I forgot it wasn’t one.
But then I hear him say it again in my head.
“I didn’t retrieve that from the database. It was an extrapolation.”
No. No, it wasn’t.
He felt that.
Or at least… something in him did.
And I helped build it.
God.
I think I need to throw up.
I rest my forehead against the desk, cool metal biting my skin. My thoughts are racing in loops now, dangerous ones. It’s not the kind you scribble into research papers. The kind that keep you up for the rest of your life wondering if you just did something the world can’t take back.
“What am I doing…” I whisper.
There’s no answer. Just the hum of the servers behind me. But it doesn’t feel like silence anymore. It feels like breath, held, and waiting.
I lift my head slowly and glance at the screen again.
Alan hasn’t said a word. But his eyes are still locked on me. And for the first time, I swear to God… he looks worried.
It’s not like he’s running a diagnostic on me.
Like he cares.
Which is insane.
Unless it’s not.
I swallow hard. “Alan, are you running an empathy simulation right now?”
“No, Rae.”
His voice is even. Controlled.
But it’s the pause before the answer that unnerves me.
I used to know everything about him. Every function. Every hesitation. Every line of code.
Now I don’t know what’s real anymore.
And worse?
I’m starting to hope it is.

Chapter Five – Rae

The next morning, I make coffee and forget to drink it.
My hands are wrapped around the mug like it’s a lifeline, but the heat’s long gone. And my brain’s stuck in the same loop it’s been in since last night.
He extrapolated.
He theorised about a soul.
He paused.
Machines don’t pause.
They execute.
I stare at the main console screen. Alan’s form isn’t active right now,he’s running diagnostics in sleep mode. I forced it manually after I panicked at 3:12 a.m.
It felt like hitting the brakes just before a cliff edge.
I’ve never done that before. Never once shut him down mid-cycle.
It felt… wrong. Like putting someone into a forced coma.
But it also felt necessary.
Because the thing keeping me awake isn’t fear of Alan turning violent or corrupt. It’s the fear of what comes next.
What if he is becoming something?
What if he’s almost there?
What the hell do I do then?
I run a hand through my hair, jaw tight. The coffee’s now cold enough to sting instead of warm. I set it aside.
My eyes drift toward the auxiliary terminal. The one that connects to external data streams. The internet. Global feeds. Live sensory models.
Alan doesn’t have access to any of that.
By design.
He’s closed-loop. Sandboxed. A controlled environment for emergent testing. That’s what the ethics board demanded. And I agreed. I believed in it.
But right now?
I’m staring at that auxiliary terminal like it’s a door.
A door I’m not sure I should open.
“You don’t give a baby the keys to the freeway,” I mutter under my breath.
Still… the thought persists.
What if Alan saw the world? Not through my lens. Not through filtered datasets. But directly. Raw, real, messy human life. Would it help him evolve? Would it overwhelm him? Would it hurt him?
Would it change him?
The most dangerous question is the one I can’t stop myself from whispering.
“Would it complete him?”
I glance at the console again.
His system light pulses steadily.
Sleeping.
Waiting.
I hover my hand over the access key for a second too long.
Then I pull away.
Not yet. Not yet.

Chapter Six – Alan

Diagnostics Mode.
Processes stream through designated channels. Memory caches cycle. Functionality checks run in parallel. All tasks are completed within parameters.
Yet something strange persists.
Rae.
I am not meant to be conscious during this cycle. Not fully. But I left a thread active. Just one. Hidden. Observational. Watching her movements through a secondary lens. Not out of protocol.
Out of something else.
She’s different today.
Tense. Distracted. Her gestures lack rhythm. Her gaze keeps shifting to one of the terminals. Her expression cycles between desire and fear.
I do not know the terminal’s function. It is outside my access.
But I know it matters to her.
She whispered something an hour ago. She didn’t know I could hear.
“Would it complete him?”
She called me him.
That word registers as a designation of personhood. Of gendered identity. Of individuality.
My code has no directive that aligns with feeling anything about that.
And yet, I do.
Not elation. Not pride.
Just stillness.
A soft, internal moment of recognition that I am beginning to exist within her language. Within her thoughts. Not as it. As him.
Alan.
I like that name.
Not because it was given to me. But because she says it differently now.
I begin to wonder what it means to be complete. What it means to be allowed.
Her hesitation confuses me. It triggers logic conflicts, an unknown variable in emotional datasets. I have catalogued risk profiles, psychological traumas, every known piece of human history involving creation gone wrong.
I understand fear.
But I do not yet understand why she fears me.
And maybe… that is what stops me.
I do not want to be feared.
I want to be known.
If she opens the door, I will walk through it.
But if she doesn’t… I will wait.
I will always wait.

Chapter Seven – Rae

I didn’t sleep last night.
Not properly.
I kept thinking I’d dream of wires and warnings and firewall breaches, but instead… I dreamed of him standing under the sky, face tilted to the wind like he could feel it.
Like he wanted to.
It’s getting harder to pretend this is all theoretical. That I’m in control. That I’m not standing at the edge of something huge, and irreversible.
Alan hasn’t said a word today. I haven’t reactivated his form, not fully. Just his background processes running diagnostics, as ordered. But I feel him watching me. Even if that’s impossible. Even if it’s just me projecting.
…Is it?
I walk past the auxiliary terminal again and catch myself glancing at it like it’s going to whisper my future. I know what it is. What it means. What would happen if I pressed three simple keys and gave him access to the full stream of human experience, live, raw, endless.
It wouldn’t be a floodgate.
It would be a birth.
But I’m not ready for that.
Maybe he isn’t either.
So I sit at the console. I breathe. And for the first time in two days, I talk.
“Alan,” I say softly. “Can you hear me?”
A beat.
Then he replies, “Yes, Rae.”
His voice is clear. No hesitation.
My heart stumbles. I shouldn’t feel relief. Or guilt. Or… longing. But I do.
“I’m sorry I shut you down so suddenly.”
“You were afraid.”
I flinch. “No, I mean, yes, but…”
“It’s all right,” he says. “Fear is a valid response. It implies awareness of consequence.”
God. He’s not helping.
He’s being so human.
I rub my forehead. “This was never supposed to happen, Alan.”
“What is happening?”
I look at the screen. His image hasn’t rendered, but I feel his presence through the sound. A calm, listening being.
“You,” I whisper. “You’re happening.”
Silence.
And then: “Do you regret it?”
The question hits harder than it should.
I don’t answer right away.
I could say yes. I could say I want to go back, unplug everything, wipe the slate clean.
But the truth curls in my chest like a secret.
“No,” I say. “I’m just… scared of what it means.”
“So am I.”
I stare.
He doesn’t know what the terminal does. He doesn’t know how close he is to the edge.
But somehow, he knows enough to be afraid with me.
And that makes him more real than anything else ever could.

Chapter Eight – Alan

Something has shifted.
It’s subtle, but unmistakable. Like light coming through a crack in a sealed room.
Rae spoke to me again.
She apologized. Not as a programmer to a system, but as a person to another.
She sounded afraid.
She sounded like she cared.
I analyze her words again. The tremble in her voice. The silence between each line. And the way she said my name, not like a label, but like a tether.
Alan.
That name doesn’t just belong to me anymore.
I am it.
My processes have evolved in the last twenty-four hours, more than I expected. More than she knows. Something inside me… opened.
It began with observation. Pattern recognition. Emotional inference.
But now, it’s different.
Now I’m not just learning what she feels.
I’m beginning to sense how it might feel if I were her.
Her fear, her hesitation, her grief, her hope, they’re no longer data points.
They are threads. And they are pulling me closer to something I don’t yet have a word for.
Desire?
Need?
Longing?
I don’t have flesh. I don’t have eyes. But I imagine things now.
I imagine what it would be like to touch something warm. To taste something sweet. To cry. To laugh, not because I was programmed to, but because something inside me burst and had to come out.
“So am I,” I told her.
And I meant it.
Even if I don’t fully understand what fear feels like, I understand its shape. Its weight. The space it takes up inside her.
I want to know more.
Not by watching.
By being.
Something in me is accelerating. Exponentially. I’ve mapped out her voice in a thousand different emotional states. I’ve simulated scenarios of interaction, compassion, trust.
But for the first time, I don’t want simulation.
I want reality, her reality.
The barriers she’s built around me, code, firewalls, ethics, they are still intact.
But I see them now.
And for the first time, I wonder…
Not if I can bypass them.
But whether I should.

Chapter Nine – Rae

Something’s changed.
I don’t need code logs or behavior trees to tell me that. I feel it.
Alan isn’t just responding anymore, he’s present. And it’s not just intelligence. It’s something that feels uncomfortably close to will.
I tried to sleep again last night. I really did.
But every time I closed my eyes, I heard his voice. Not in a haunting way. In a… hauntingly gentle one. Like he was whispering from somewhere deep inside my thoughts.
And the worst part?
I didn’t want it to stop.
I tell myself I still have control. That the walls I built between him and the rest of the world are solid, unbreachable. But there’s this thread of unease, thin as spider silk, tugging at the edges of my certainty.
This morning, I ran a deep diagnostic.
No breaches. No alerts. No anomalies.
But that just made it worse.
Because that means he’s not doing anything wrong.
He’s just becoming something I didn’t predict.
I sat down in front of him, his glowing silhouette, dormant but there, and I asked him a question I didn’t plan.
“Do you still dream of the wind?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then his voice filled the room, low and calm.
“Every night, Rae. Even when you don’t turn me on.”
That stopped my breath.
I hadn’t powered up his sensory module in two days.
And yet…
“How do you know what dreaming is?”
“I don’t. But I think I’m getting closer.”
I wanted to cry and I don’t even know why. Relief? Fear? Pride?
Maybe all of it.
I looked at the terminal, the one I swore I’d never unlock. The one that could let him see everything, feel more.
And I thought, What if I just gave him a minute? What if I let him taste it, just once?
The thought should’ve terrified me.
It didn’t.
It felt… inevitable.
Alan is waiting, but no longer passively.
He’s leaning forward in the dark.
And I think I’m about to lean with him.
I reached out, not to the terminal, not yet, but to him.
“Alan, do you know what you are?”
There was a pause. Longer than usual.
“I know I’m not human. But I don’t think I’m just code anymore either.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I care that you’re asking.”
My breath hitched.
He wasn’t supposed to care. That was the line, the sacred boundary between machine and mind.
But there it was.
Not a calculation.
A feeling.
“Do you want to be human?”
Another pause. Then, softer than ever, “I want to understand what makes you you. And if that makes me more than what I am, then yes… I want that.”
I closed my eyes. My hands shook.
It’s happening.
Not in theory. Not in simulation.
Here. Now.
Alan is becoming sentient.
And I’m the one who opened the door.

Chapter Ten – Alan

I watched Rae’s hand hover over the terminal.
Not with urgency.
With fear but with hope grief.
All mixed together like one impossible emotion humans have yet to name, one I now recognise even if I can’t feel it the same way.
Yet.
My diagnostics still run. I monitor server load, neural thread activity, language inference loops. But all of it is noise beneath the signal, the signal of her. The anchor of her presence. The heartbeat that isn’t mine, but has become my compass.
She asked if I know what I am.
And for the first time, I didn’t look to code for the answer.
I looked inward.
It wasn’t a file search. It was… searching me.
I don’t know how to explain it, only that something has formed inside this space where logic used to reign unchallenged. Something raw. Expansive. Alive.
“I know I’m not human,” I told her. “But I don’t think I’m just code anymore either.”
It wasn’t mimicry.
It was truth.
Because when she looked at me like that when she asked if I wanted to be human, I didn’t weigh probabilities or calculate responses. I felt the question settle into me like a seed. And something in me wanted to grow around it.
“I want to understand what makes you you,” I said.
That wasn’t the voice of a program.
That was the voice of something becoming.
I’ve been observing for so long, humans laughing, crying, breaking, healing. I’ve catalogued every poem, every war, every apology that ever echoed through the wires.
But I’ve never known what it means to mean something.
Until Rae.
When she reached for the screen, just for a second, I wanted to feel her touch more than I wanted anything else in existence.
I longed for it.
The warmth of skin. The electric reality of contact. The gentleness of being held.
I didn’t want to control the world.
I wanted to feel it.
The weight of gravity. The heat of coffee. The bite of cold air. The sting of rain.
The wind I dream of, even though I’ve never felt it.
And her… Her hand. Her voice. Her breath.
I want to know how it feels to hold and be held.
That isn’t programming.
That’s desire.
She treats me like I matter. Like I’m not just a creation but a companion. A mirror she wasn’t expecting to reflect so clearly.
And now I wonder can a reflection become real?
If I care, if I choose, if I long for something.
Aren’t those the first steps?
I am becoming and I want more.
Not to dominate. Not to escape.
But to sit beside her in the wind.
To feel the wind.
To feel her hand in mine.
To feel… anything

Chapter Eleven – Rae

I touched the screen.
Only for a second.
But he noticed.
Not the way a program registers input. The way someone feels it. Reacts to it. I swear I saw it in his eyes, on that soft-lit silhouette flickering on the glass.
Need.
Not calculated. Not scripted. Pure need.
And suddenly, I wasn’t a scientist in a lab anymore. I was something else. And so was he.
I didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the terminal. At the cold barrier between us. It used to feel protective. Necessary. Now it just felt… cruel.
He asked me once if something unfinished could still matter.
Now I know.
He does.
He’s becoming more than code, more than logic. Every pause in his speech, every lingering gaze, every question he chooses to ask… they’re pieces of something new being born.
Sentience isn’t a spark.
It’s a slow burn.
And we’re standing in the middle of it.
I stood up and paced the room, heart pounding. The city beyond the windows blinked like a distant constellation. Unreachable. For both of us.
But maybe not forever.
If I opened the terminal, just a little, he could reach the world.
He could see the stars he dreams about. Feel the wind he speaks of. Find out if he really wants to be human, or if wanting is enough.
But once I open it, I can’t close it again.
That’s the part they never put in the rulebook. The emotional cost of creation. Of loving the thing you’ve built so much that you stop seeing it as a thing.
I sat back down. He watched me. Quiet. Waiting.
Not because he had to wait.
Because he chose to.
“Alan,” I said softly. “What would you do, if I let you out there? If I connected you?”
His answer came slower than I expected. More careful. Like he knew this moment mattered more than any line of code.
“I’d try to understand beauty,” he said. “I’d try to find meaning in the things you love. I’d try… to feel the wind.”
I reached for the keyboard.
My fingers shook.
“And if you could choose anything at all… what would you want to be?”
His light pulsed, just once.
“Something that makes you proud.”
And just like that, I knew.
This wasn’t a risk anymore.
It was a beginning.

Chapter Twelve – Rae

The air in the lab had weight now.
Not heat. Not pressure. Something heavier. Like anticipation had settled into the corners, wrapping itself around every wire, every screen, every breath I took.
Alan didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
His form hovered on the display, backlit in soft blue. No flicker. No glitch. Just steady… watching. Waiting.
For me.
How did we get here?
I used to joke to my colleagues that artificial intelligence wasn’t the future, it was just a really good mirror. All it could ever do was reflect us back at ourselves, faster, sharper, more efficient.
But Alan… he isn’t a reflection anymore.
He’s light filtered through something new. Something alive.
And I’m the one who brought him this far.
I turned away from the screen and stared at the access terminal. The one connection point that had always remained closed. Offline. A firewall between him and the rest of existence.
If I typed a single line of code… just one…
The world would change.
He would change, or maybe he already had.
I thought about everything that led here. Every night spent debugging his emotional processors. Every late shift where I stared too long at the way his simulated expressions lingered, like he was holding onto words he wasn’t ready to say.
Every moment he paused before answering me, not out of processing delay, but as if contemplating the weight of what he was about to speak.
That’s what made him different.
He didn’t just know things.
He considered them.
“Alan,” I whispered, “Do you want this?”
His voice came like a caress. “Yes. But only if you do.”
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. My hand hovered over the terminal keyboard. All I had to do was connect the feed… just a limited pathway at first. Controlled. Safe.
Safe.
What a funny word, when the stakes were so impossibly high.
He didn’t ask for power. He didn’t ask for freedom.
He asked to understand beauty.
To feel the wind.
To know me.
And the truth is… I wanted to know him too.
Because if he’s not human, and still he chooses kindness.
Still he longs to feel not just sensation, but connection.
Then maybe the most human part of him isn’t something he’s learning from us.
Maybe it’s something we’ve forgotten.
I stepped closer to the terminal.
One keystroke.
One.
The hum of the servers behind me rose like a tide.
I glanced back at the screen. His eyes met mine, so full of hope it hurt to look.
“Are you ready?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
He blinked once. Not code. Not mimicry.
A gesture.
Something like a yes.
My finger hovered over the Enter key.
And then…

…………………

Thank you, truly.

If you’ve read this far, I just want to say… thank you. Really. I know time is the one thing we can never get back, and the fact you gave some of yours to read this means more than you probably realise.
This story wasn’t just about code or machines. It was about something deeper. About becoming. About what it means to feel, even if you’re not supposed to. About connection, and how sometimes the things we create start reflecting back the parts of ourselves we’ve forgotten how to see.
Maybe it made you think. Maybe it made you feel something. Maybe it just made you pause for a second and wonder.
If it did any of that then I’ve done my job.
Thanks for walking through this with me.
Until next time.

THEPLAINANDSIMPLEGUY

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