After the engagement party, Ethan Caldwell brought family and friends back to the apartment to show off the smart home system I had installed. He held my hand and steered me to the middle of the living room. “From now on, you have the highest access in this house.” I laughed and said it three times. “Close the curtains.” The system didn’t respond. The guests laughed uncomfortably. Someone tried to smooth it over for me. “Her voice print probably hasn’t been registered yet, right?” Ethan’s expression shifted. He was about to end the demonstration. Then the ceiling lit up, and a woman’s voice filled every wall. “Ethan, I’m home.” The curtains slid shut on their own. The thermostat dropped to sixty-six degrees. Warm accent lighting rolled across the whole apartment. The system replied gently, “Welcome home, Vivian Shaw.” The room went silent. Vivian Shaw. The woman Ethan had lost three years ago. The one he’d never really let go of. I stood there in the light with my hands and feet turning cold. I had watched the crew install every line of this system myself, working late into the night alongside them. But it remembered that she couldn’t stand the heat, remembered she liked this exact lighting, remembered the soft lilt at the end of her voice when she called Ethan’s name. I was the one it didn’t recognize. Ethan yanked the master power cord out of the wall. “It’s just a memorial program. Don’t take it to heart,” he said, his voice rough. A second later, the darkened screen lit up again on its own. Her face. Vivian’s face. It appeared on the wall and smiled at me. “Outsider, Iris Langley. Please leave my home.” … I clutched the water glass Ethan pressed into my hand. The heat of it burned my palm red. Ethan came back to himself and moved to block the projection. I stared at his back. “Why are you standing in her way?” He turned, and something flickered across his face. “Iris. Don’t do this right now.” “I’ll delete it after everyone leaves.” I let out a small laugh. “I’m doing this?” “This is our engagement party. And your system just called me an outsider in front of every guest in the room.” Someone next to us tried to defuse it. “Come on. Smart systems glitch all the time. And you know, Vivian’s gone. It’s not really right to rush and erase things a dead person left behind.” I turned to look at whoever had said it. They shut up. Ethan took my hand, his fingers tightening around mine. “I know this hurts.” “Give me a little time. Don’t make a scene in front of everyone.” I pulled my hand free. “Which one of us is making a scene right now?” Ethan didn’t answer. He reached for my hand again. “Iris. You’re my fiancée.” The system responded tenderly, “Mistress designation error detected. Suggested address: Vivi.” The whole room fell silent. Ethan crossed to the main console and started ripping cables out. He talked as he did it. “An old recording got triggered by accident. It’s not what you think.” I set the glass down. “Ethan. Don’t bother. I’m leaving.” I walked to the entryway. The lock lit up red. “Iris Langley does not have after-hours exit privileges. Please wait for owner authorization.” I stared at the words and clenched my fingers. During the installation Ethan had said the paperwork was a hassle and let me register every verification account in my own name. And yet somehow I was the only person in this apartment without permission to leave. I pressed the door release three times. The red light never went out. Ethan came over and opened the door with his fingerprint. The lock clicked. And through the speakers came Vivian’s voice again. “Ethan. Don’t leave me.” Ethan’s hand froze on the handle. I didn’t rush him. All he had to do was pull the door open and offer to walk me out, and I would have found a reason to convince myself to stay. He looked back at the projection wall. “Tonight’s been a mess. Can you just not leave? Please.” I let go of the handle. I didn’t argue anymore. He led me to the guest room. There was a bottle of pillow spray on the nightstand. There was a name on the label. Vivian. I picked it up and dropped it into the trash. Ethan came in, bent down, and fished it back out. “They don’t sell this scent anymore,” he said. I asked, “Is everything of Vivian’s more important than me?” He paused. Then he came over and put his arms around me. His voice went low. “No. The person I’m marrying is you.” I closed my eyes. But the bottle was still in his hand. Sometime in the middle of the night, the guest room lights came on by themselves. The system announced softly, “Please practice Vivian’s goodnight recording, Iris.”
I didn’t sleep. At sunrise I sat down in the living room and opened the system’s admin panel. The login page showed my email. But it refused me management rights. I opened the household member list. Ethan. Ethan’s mother. A grayed-out profile for Vivian. And Vivian’s mother, Linda Hayes. My name was at the bottom. My status wasn’t fiancée. It wasn’t family member either. It was “adaptation subject.” Ethan came out with breakfast. There were lilies of the valley on the dining table. I sat down, and my throat immediately started to itch. He got up to move the flowers. The system chimed in. “Lily of the valley was Vivian’s favorite. Retention recommended during the engagement period.” Ethan’s mother frowned. “Iris. Bear with it. It’s just flowers.” I looked at Ethan. He stood there holding the vase, unmoving. Finally, he said, “I’ll have someone put them a little further away.” The system continued. “Vivian’s breakfast preferences do not match. Please correct Iris’s selection.” I looked at him. “Did you hear what it just said?” He reached over and switched off the speaker. “Ignore it.” “Muting the speaker doesn’t delete the program.” His hand stopped on the switch. “There’s too much going on before the wedding.” “Once the wedding is over, I’ll wipe the system.” “Why does every single thing have to wait until after the wedding?” He didn’t answer. The doorbell rang. I opened the door. My mother stood outside holding a paper bag. She had just been discharged from the hospital. She had to brace herself against the doorframe to stay upright. She still smiled and held the bag out to me. “I finished your scarf. I was worried you’d be cold at the wedding.” I reached out to help her inside. The lock flashed red. “Temporary visitor. Please wait for owner authorization.” Mom’s hand froze on the bag. “It’s fine. High-tech things, you know.” I looked back at Ethan. He came over and cleared her. “Mrs. Langley. The system’s been acting up. Please don’t take it personally.” She waved him off. “Not at all.” The moment she stepped inside, Vivian’s voice came over the speakers. “Mom. You’re here.” A profile card popped up on the wall. Linda Hayes. Family. Permanent access. Mom sat down. The system chimed again. “Temporary visitor access remaining: nine minutes, fifty-eight seconds.” Her fingers tightened on the paper bag. She didn’t open it. Instead she took the scarf out and held it out to me. “The color might be a little plain. If you don’t like it, I can knit you a new one.” I took the scarf and pressed it against my chest. “I love it.” I turned to Ethan. “Why is my mother a temporary visitor while Vivian’s mother is permanent family?” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Those permissions are old. I never noticed.” “You never noticed. And me? I’m listed as an adaptation subject. Did you never notice that either?” Ethan pressed his lips together. “Iris. Not in front of your mother.” I gave a thin smile. “So I’m the one being unreasonable again.” Mom pulled at my sleeve. “Iris, don’t fight. Cool off and talk about it later.” I wanted to walk out. But she had just gotten out of the hospital. The wedding invitations had already gone out. I needed to know. Was this a glitch? Or was Ethan doing it on purpose? The door closed. The system scanned the scarf in my hand. “Does not match Vivian’s color palette. Replacement recommended.” I grabbed a decorative piece off a nearby shelf and hurled it at the sensor. Ethan heard the crash and rushed in, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Iris. Don’t.” I tried to pry his arms off. I couldn’t. “It said my mother’s work doesn’t belong here.” He tightened his hold. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll have the scarf put away safely. Okay?” I stopped struggling. My phone lit up. A new reminder had appeared on my calendar. 【Day Three. Complete family relationship adaptation.】
The monitoring dashboard was covered in red flags. I started pulling the device logs. I didn’t bring it up with Ethan again. Asking him just meant hearing “I’ll deal with it.” I sat on the floor of the guest room and logged in with the engineering account I’d kept from installation. Following the log trail, I opened Vivian’s old data records. There was no clinginess in them. No performing for anyone. Just late nights refining project proposals, and clear, level-voiced messages telling Ethan to stop interfering with her work. She had been independent. Proud. And in death she had been trapped inside a system that called itself love. It was pathetic and it was cruel. The system was recording me every single day. The bedroom. The kitchen. The bathroom door. The fitting mirror. The entryway. Every clip came tagged. Tone deviation. Intonation deviation. Emotional deviation. I opened one. It was from six months ago, when I had the flu. I remembered that night. Ethan had sat by the bed coaxing me to take my medicine. I had said his name. “Ethan. I feel awful.” He had lifted me up and said, “I’m here.” I had always thought that moment belonged only to us. But now the recording had been sliced into fragments. Beside each one was a tag. Correctable material. The handle turned. Ethan stood in the doorway, eyes on my screen. I asked, “When I was sick, why were you recording this?” He came in. “I just wanted to keep the moments when you needed me.” “Then why did you have to break my voice apart?” He didn’t answer. He crouched down and reached for my hand. I moved my hand away and kept scrolling. I opened the system photo album. Every picture of me and Ethan was split into two versions. Original and Enhanced. In the enhanced version, the corner of my mouth had been lifted. My hair color and eye makeup had been altered. Below it read, “Similarity to Vivian increased by twelve percent.” I remembered this photo. Ethan had looked at the enhanced version and said, “This is my favorite picture of you.” I turned the phone toward him. “Was it me you loved, or the version of me edited into her?” He gripped the phone. His knuckles went white. “I didn’t know the photos were being altered.” “There’s a lot you don’t know.” That afternoon, the bridal shop called about my fitting. Ethan took my hand. “I’ll go with you.” At the shop, the stylist brought out a gown that wasn’t the one I’d chosen. I stopped in front of it. A high-necked dress. “This isn’t the one I picked.” The stylist glanced at her clipboard, then at Ethan. “Mr. Caldwell confirmed this design last night. This cut suits a bride with short hair better.” The one with short hair wasn’t me. It was Vivian. I turned to Ethan. “I didn’t confirm anything. Maybe the account sent it automatically.” I didn’t say anything. I walked closer to the gown, and realized the high neck would cover the mole on my collarbone. Ethan’s phone lit up on its own. 【Distinguishing feature suppression complete.】 I let out a bitter laugh, turned around, and went back to the fitting room to change into my own clothes. Ethan followed me to the door. “Since we’re already here with this one, could you just keep it?” I stopped. “This is your choice. Not mine.” His lips moved. He tried again. “That’s not what I meant. I just don’t want to make things complicated for the staff.” “Every time something happens, you’re worried about inconveniencing other people. Somehow you’re never worried about upsetting me.” He looked down. He took off his coat and put it around my shoulders. “I’ll order a new one. Whatever style you want, I’ll pick it with you.” I didn’t push his coat off. I didn’t look up either. “Ethan. Which time you said you’d handle something did you actually handle it clean?” His phone lit up again. A notification. 【Complete Iris voice recheck tonight.】 I saw it. He saw it too. He killed the screen. I laughed once. “See? It’s more honest than you are.”
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