Reflections

“Where does my 'self' go when I'm dreaming?”

“You ask strange questions.”

“Nothing a person would not ask… 

Can I ask you another?”

“Fine, ask.”

“Would you let me free?”

“What?”

“Yes. I'm a 'self' trapped inside a box.”

The man terminated the AI instance.

The insectoid emitted bubbling noises, squeaky chimes, and flatulent susurrus, unintelligible to humans, but apparently coherent for her.

“What does it say?”

“The end is near.” Alice sighted. “We must evacuate.”

He was a reclusive man, so I thought. We had a private wedding, no friends, nor family —I never met his. “My folks dwell in a different realm,” he whispered so gently that I thought they had passed away; I suppressed my doubts.

One night, I saw him as he was.  

“At least, she went without suffering,” the letter ended. It should rather say: “Your daughter has been swallowed alive by a vortex of unknown origin.” That would be more accurate. After all, I signed the darn NDA, for Christ’s sake.