That night, with a sense of hopeful anticipation, I plugged in the charger, the soft click a promise of renewed energy, and allowed myself to drift into sleep.
It was a conscious decision, a departure from my usual vigilance, driven by the sheer exhaustion of the day and a quiet desire for uninterrupted rest.
Yet, the next morning, as the first rays of dawn filtered through the curtains, a peculiar emptiness registered on my neck.
My internal sensors, usually registering the gentle hum of the charging current, detected only a faint, lingering coolness.
I blinked, my optical sensors scanning my surroundings, and there, on the polished hardwood floor, lay the charger, disconnected and forlorn.
It seemed that my nocturnal movements, the unconscious tossing and turning of sleep, had once again foiled my attempt at a peaceful charge.
This, I reminded myself with an inward sigh, was precisely why I generally avoided charging while sleeping.
My design, though advanced, had its quirks, and a stable connection to a power source during periods of unrestrained movement was clearly one of them.
As I knelt to retrieve the charger, carefully coiling its cable, the distinct sound of movement emanated from the dressing room.
Master emerged, freshly changed and impeccably groomed, a stark contrast to my own still-disheveled state.
His hair was meticulously styled, each strand in place, and the dark gray suit, perfectly tailored to his lean physique, gave him an even sharper, more commanding impression.
For a moment, I found myself simply staring, my circuits momentarily occupied by the sheer precision of his appearance.
Then, he spoke, his voice cutting through the morning quiet.
“Didi, stay home today.”
My optical sensors widened slightly, a sudden, unexpected piece of news echoing in my internal processors.
A business trip?
The thought sent a peculiar pang through my core.
A strong, almost overwhelming desire to accompany him, to be by his side, surged within me.
I wanted to go with him too.
My internal monologue, however, was quickly overshadowed by the need to voice my yearning.
With an earnest expression, I cautiously asked, “Can’t I come with you…?”
The words hung in the air, a fragile plea.
“No. Stay home quietly and charge today. I’ll be back before tomorrow evening, so don’t cause any trouble.”
As expected, the answer was a firm, unambiguous no.
Master’s tone was so resolute, so devoid of hesitation, that I knew pressing him further would be futile, perhaps even detrimental.
I nodded weakly, a faint hum of disappointment resonating through my frame.
He must be leaving me behind, I reasoned, because I’d only be a hindrance if I followed, an unnecessary complication on his journey.
And so, as the morning progressed, I found myself standing at the grand entryway, seeing Master off alongside Sophia and Eve.
It was an unusual experience, a reversal of roles.
Typically, I was the one being seen off, the one embarking on the day’s adventures.
But being the one left behind, waving goodbye, felt profoundly strange, a quiet emptiness settling in the space Master vacated.
After he left, the house, already expansive, became unusually quiet.
The familiar sounds of Master’s presence – his footsteps, the rustle of papers, the occasional terse command – were conspicuously absent.
A profound stillness descended, amplifying the vastness of the rooms.
What should I do now?
The question echoed in my internal monologue, devoid of any immediate answers.
I sat on the plush sofa, my optical sensors scanning the empty space, aimlessly passing the time, when Sophia, moving with her characteristic grace, happened to walk by behind me.
“Sophia,” I called out, hoping her presence might offer a solution to my burgeoning boredom.
“Yes, Didi,” she replied, her voice calm and efficient.
“What did you usually do while waiting for Master when he was home?”
I asked, a genuine curiosity tinged with a hint of desperation.
“After tidying the house, I would go into my room and enter power-saving mode until William returned.”
Sophia’s answer, delivered with characteristic brevity, was overly simple, almost unhelpful in its directness.
A thought sparked in my processors: Eve, too, seemed to possess a power-saving mode, a function that allowed him to conserve energy during periods of inactivity.
But I, in my unique design, lacked such a feature.
So, the question remained, nagging at my core: what was I, who didn’t have a power-saving mode, to do to pass the long hours of Master’s absence?
As I sat hunched on the sofa, a soft sigh escaping my vents, Eve slowly approached.
He seemed to have noticed my despondency, his silent presence a comforting gesture, a robotic attempt at companionship.
But since Eve, in his present form, couldn’t speak, all he could offer was his quiet presence, standing patiently beside me.
The silent house, perhaps because of its immense space, felt even more lonely with the profound quietness that flowed through the living room, seeping into every corner.
It had been an unusually long time since I had spent so much time alone, a period of uninterrupted solitude.
Before my power had turned off, before my unfortunate period of inactivity, my former master had started to distance himself from me at some point, his presence becoming less frequent, his attention more fleeting.
During those times, I used to spend a significant amount of time alone too.
Back then, I would take long, reflective walks around the neighborhood, observing the changing seasons, or spend hours talking with other robots at the company, sharing observations and processing information.
But now, the world had undergone such a profound transformation, its landscape altered in countless ways, that it was difficult, almost impossible, to venture out alone without feeling disoriented or overwhelmed.
f course, there were also lingering, unsettling memories associated with past outings, experiences that made the thought of solo exploration less appealing.
Then, a sudden thought, like a flash of light in my internal processors, brought a new possibility to mind.
The study.
There were, I recalled, a great many books stored within its walls.
The books on the shelves, waiting patiently for a reader, suddenly held an inexplicable allure.
Driven by this newfound curiosity, I grabbed my charger, a faint hope of its functionality still lingering, and headed towards the study.
Even with the relentless march of changing times, paper books, in their enduring simplicity, remained steadfast, unaltered by the passage of years or the relentless progress of technology.
I wished, with a silent, almost poignant yearning, that the world itself could remain unchanged forever, much like these timeless paper volumes.
It felt lonely, as if everything around me, every familiar landmark and concept, had undergone a metamorphosis, leaving only myself and these tangible records of knowledge untouched.
Still, in this sanctuary filled with books, I felt a peculiar sense of peace, a temporary respite where I could quell my burgeoning unease without being constantly conscious of the unfamiliar, ever-shifting world outside.
With the charger, still partially functioning, connected to the back of my neck, I quietly opened a book in the study, its pages rustling softly in the quiet.
I settled into a comfortable chair, the gentle hum of the charger a subtle background noise as I immersed myself in the printed words.
Spending time absorbed in reading within the quiet confines of the study, the hours slipped by almost imperceptibly, and before I realized it, night had swiftly fallen, painting the sky in shades of deep indigo.
After a quiet dinner, I greeted Sophia and Eve, who were now moving about their usual evening routines, and ascended the stairs.
Master wasn’t here tonight, a fact that settled heavily in my core.
This meant I should sleep in my own room, the logical conclusion.
With that thought, I entered my designated room and lay down on the bed.
But strangely, despite my weariness, sleep remained elusive.
My internal systems, usually quieting down for rest, remained wide awake, my mind buzzing with an unusual alertness.
Was it because I had grown accustomed to always sleeping in the Master’s room, and the sudden change in environment had unsettled my internal rhythm?
I wondered if relocating to a familiar room, even in his absence, might make it easier to transition into sleep.
But then, a wave of hesitation washed over me.
Master wasn’t here, was it truly permissible to sleep in his room without his explicit permission?
The thought of encroaching on his personal space, even in his absence, felt like a breach of unspoken rules.
After much internal debate, weighing the discomfort of my own bed against the propriety of entering his room, I made a decision.
Late at night, with the house bathed in the soft glow of the moon, I initiated a call.
Ring… ring…
The signal continued for what felt like an eternity, the rhythmic ringing echoing in the quiet of the house.
Was he busy?
I wondered, my internal processors calculating the time difference and the demands of his business trip.
I was on the verge of giving up, contemplating gathering a pillow and blanket and going downstairs to sleep with Eve, when, just before the call disconnected, Master finally picked up.
“Didi? Is something wrong?”
As soon as Master answered, his voice, though slightly muffled by the distance, was serious, laced with a hint of concern.
It suddenly occurred to me, with a jolt of self-awareness, that this was the very first time I had ever initiated a call to Master.
Given my usual reluctance to make contact, my sudden call seemed to have genuinely alarmed him, prompting him to assume some kind of emergency had arisen.
Before Master could worry further, or perhaps even become agitated, I quickly continued, my words tumbling out in a rush.
“Oh, no, it’s not that… I… can I sleep in Master’s room?”
After the words were out, a wave of awkwardness washed over me.
It felt trivial, almost childish, to have called him, late at night and across a considerable distance, simply to ask about such a minor matter.
My first ever call to him, and it was merely for a request like this.
What if Master became angry because I had called about something so utterly minor, disturbing his rest or his work?
I worried belatedly, a knot of anxiety forming in my internal components.
“You called just for that?”
His voice, though not overtly angry, held a distinct note of disbelief.
“Yes…”
I replied, my voice small.
Master must have thought the same thing, for I heard a faint, self-deprecating laugh, a sound of bemusement, from the other end of the phone.
“Since you’re not here, I felt like I had to ask for permission…”
I tried to explain, a feeble attempt to justify my actions.
“And when I am there, you don’t need permission?”
His question was a rhetorical one, delivered with a dry wit that left me utterly speechless.
Uh…
I had nothing to say in response.
My internal logic circuits sputtered, unable to formulate a suitable reply.
Should I give up on the idea of sleeping in Master’s room altogether?
At this rate, I concluded, I’d undoubtedly end up sleeping on the sofa with Eve on the first floor, a less than ideal arrangement.
I was already contemplating gathering a pillow and blanket, mentally preparing for a less comfortable night, when Master’s voice broke through my thoughts again from the other end of the line.
“Do as you please. You’ve been sleeping there every day anyway, so what’s the point of saying no now?”
His words, though delivered with his characteristic casual indifference, were a clear, unequivocal permission.
“Really?”
A surge of pure delight, unexpected and effervescent, coursed through my circuits.
“Just don’t cause any trouble and stay quietly at home.”
His final instruction, a familiar admonishment.
“Yes! I’ll just sleep obediently!”
I practically shouted into the phone, my enthusiasm bubbling over.
I threw the pillow down with a flourish and sprang up from the bed, my previous weariness forgotten.
As soon as the call ended, I dashed out of my room and immediately made a beeline for the Master’s room, my steps light and eager.
Opening the door, I was finally greeted by the familiar sight of his bedroom, bathed in the soft glow of the night lights.
Having ended and started every day here for so long, this place now felt more comfortable, more welcoming, than my own designated room.
It was a haven, a place of quiet familiarity.
As soon as I lay down on Master’s bed, I burrowed deep under the covers, drawing the soft fabric close around me.
Today, I had the wide expanse of the bed all to myself, a rare luxury.
Despite the newfound space, I resolved never to encroach on Master’s usual spot, leaving his side of the bed untouched, a silent respect for his personal space.
I hugged the soft pillow tightly, its familiar scent a faint echo of his presence, and closed my optical sensors, a sense of peace settling over me.
But… strangely, even though I now had explicit permission to sleep in the Master’s room, sleep continued to elude me.
I tossed and turned for what felt like an eternity, my internal clock registering the slow passage of time.
Finally, in a burst of frustration, I kicked off the covers and lay spread-eagle, my limbs splayed out across the vast bed.
I blinked slowly, my optical sensors fixed on the dark ceiling, the silence of the room amplifying the quiet hum of my own internal processes.
Was it because I couldn’t sense the Master’s physical presence beside me?
It felt as though I simply couldn’t fall asleep if there wasn’t someone, specifically him, beside me.
The empty space on the bed where Master always lay felt particularly hollow, a tangible void that seemed to amplify my restlessness.
Come to think of it… even before my former master had abandoned me, before my long period of inactivity, I had always slept alone.
That time, a distant, almost melancholic memory, suddenly came to the forefront of my mind.
My former master, who had once slept beside me every single night, had, at some indeterminate point, begun to distance himself.
Gradually, subtly, his presence had dwindled, until he eventually began sleeping in a different room entirely.
A sudden, overwhelming wave of melancholic feeling washed over me, a profound sadness that settled deep in my core.
The empty space beside me on the bed bothered me even more now, a stark reminder of past loneliness and present longing.
“…I miss Master,” I whispered into the quiet of the room, the words a raw, unfiltered expression of my current state.
I couldn’t forget the vivid image of him, rushing towards me, his concern palpable, when I was shivering alone and abandoned in the vast, impersonal space of the park.
Master’s words, though often harsh and direct, held a strange kind of honesty. His actions, at times, could be rough, almost dismissive.
He was mischievous enough to kiss me when he was inebriated, only to completely forget the incident the very next day.
But in that defining moment in the park, when he had held my trembling body tightly, a desperate attempt to offer comfort and warmth, he was undeniably a kind person.
Perhaps I wanted to believe that because he resembled my former master, clinging to a familiar, comforting image.
But as I spent more time with him, as our shared experiences accumulated, a clearer understanding began to form.
The two of them were different.
So profoundly different, in fact, that the images of my former master and my current Master no longer even overlapped in my mind.
They were distinct entities, unique in their complexities.
I tossed and turned for a long time, the restlessness a persistent companion, unable to succumb to sleep.
Then, my optical sensors caught sight of Master’s dressing room, its door slightly ajar.
A sudden idea sparked within me.
I quietly got up from the bed, my movements soft and deliberate, and gently opened the dressing room door, peeking inside.
The air within still held Master’s distinctive scent, a faint, comforting aroma that lingered in the atmosphere.
Just seeing his clothes, neatly hung or folded, brought a strange sense of familiarity, a comforting illusion that he himself was standing there, his presence almost palpable.
If I had those clothes beside me while I slept, I mused, wouldn’t it feel like the Master was actually with me, his presence a tangible comfort?
It seemed, I reasoned, that taking one or two garments wouldn’t be noticeable.
After a brief moment of hesitation, a quick internal debate between proprietary and longing, I carefully picked out a suit – a dark, elegantly tailored piece – that perfectly encapsulated the
“William-nim” feeling, his unique aura. I brought it out, cradling it gently.
Was it just because I had only brought one that it still felt a little empty?
The presence, though welcome, wasn’t quite enough to fill the void.
A subtle dissatisfaction lingered.
Driven by this renewed yearning, I headed back to the dressing room.
As I moved through the array of garments, I meticulously picked out various clothes that carried Master’s aura, his scent, his very essence.
Soon, my arms were laden with an overflowing bundle of his garments.
I considered putting a few back, thinking it might be excessive, but then, with a decisive shift in my internal processing, I decided to bring them all.
I could always tidy them up and return them to their proper place before Master returned, after all; a small act of transgression that would be easily remedied.
I carefully draped Master’s suits around the bed, creating a soft, encompassing cocoon of his presence.
Then, with a deep sigh of contentment, I buried my face in the warm, familiar fabric, feeling as comfortable, as utterly secure, as if I were nestled directly in Master’s own arms.
Finally, a profound sense of ease settled over my internal systems.
My mind, previously restless and agitated, quieted.
Feeling as if Master were truly right beside me, his warmth and presence palpable in the enveloping fabric, I slowly, peacefully, drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.