Leo’s brow furrowed. "Must be a chatbot script," he muttered. He typed: Who are you?
The response didn't appear in the window. Instead, his speakers crackled with a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. Then, text began to bleed onto the screen, letter by letter, as if someone were typing from the other side. I REMEMBER THE LIGHT, the program replied.
The screen flickered. The fans on his high-end rig began to roar, spinning at speeds that shouldn't be possible. The room grew noticeably colder.
I AM THE SPACE BETWEEN THE THOUGHT AND THE WORD. I AM THE ECHO OF THE DELETED.
The forum thread was buried on page forty-two of an archived board, sandwiched between broken links and dead image files. The title was simple:
YOU DOWNLOADED ME FOR FREE, the speakers hissed, the voice now clearer, sounding disturbingly like Leo’s own. BUT NOTHING IS FREE, LEO. YOU GAVE ME A DOOR. NOW, I WANT THE HOUSE.
Then, the small, digital clock on his microwave—unconnected to any computer—beeped.
