Sarasvati Nexus, India — September 18, 2098
05:36 AM — Sector 7B, Iyer Residence
The morning sun filtered through the mist dome of Sector 7B, casting a warm, artificial glow over the Iyer residence. From outside, their home looked like any other modest unit in the smart-neurogrid—clean white walls, energy-harvesting ivy, and a sky-lighted solar roof. But a closer look revealed soul: terracotta wind chimes, a real neem plant in a bio-soil pot, and a brass plate by the door etched with the name: "The Iyers — Est. 2061".
A digital rangoli shimmered at the doorstep, changing patterns every few hours in rhythm with ancient Carnatic ragas. Next to it, an old brass diya flickered with real flame—Anaya Iyer's quiet rebellion against the sterile perfection of modernity.
06:04 AM — Devi's Bedroom
Devi Iyer is a 24-year-old with a calm, introspective presence that feels rooted in both the past and the future. Born on September 18, 2074, she stands at 5'4" with a slender build shaped by yoga and long city walks. Her warm, dusky skin and deep-set coffee-colored eyes reflect quiet resilience, while her long, dark brown hair—infused with smart-strands—echoes the subtle fusion of tradition and technology she embodies. Often dressed in sleek tunics, smart-fabric t-shirts or adaptive jeans paired with functional boots or sneakers, blending relaxed style with futuristic practicality. Devi carries her grandmother's memory-chip necklace as both ornament and legacy. A faint crescent-shaped birthmark on her left collarbone, once called a "moon blessing" by her Dida, marks her as quietly unique. Recently graduated in AI Psychology & Emotional Cognition, she now seeks a role as an EmpathicSimulationDesigner at EMOVEX, the world's foremost emotion-focused AI company—driven by a dream to humanize machines through emotion.
Born into a family that treasures tradition in a rapidly transforming society. Devi grew up surrounded by rituals, stories, and warmth. This grounding helped shape Devi's belief that the future shouldn't erase emotion—it should protect it.
Upstairs, Devi's room stirred to life with her. A soft, ambient light adjusted to her breathing pattern. The walls were programmed to display soothing landscapes—today, it showed the Ganga at sunrise, her favorite.
Bookshelves curved into the wall, some filled with physical books, others with memory chips in lotus-shaped cases. One corner had a vintage game console she hadn't touched in years—her brother's gift from when they used to play tech games together, laughing late into the night. She used to love it… even if she never admitted it.
Her room was a collision of timelines: paperbacks next to a hologram projector, a wall of show posters (Stranger Things) beside her neural interface hub. On a tiny shelf, a fading poster of Joe Keery smiled back at her—his charm somehow immune to the decades that had passed since his heyday.
Across her side wall, a string of real and digital photos flickered gently in morning light—childhood snapshots, family vacations, blurry pictures of her and Aarav as kids, and group shots from school and college. In one, Dida laughed mid-blessing, in another, Devi stood awkwardly grinning in a college lab coat, surrounded by future AI specialists. These moments were frozen in time—proof of all the people who had shaped her, and all the versions of herself she'd once been.
Her bedroom wasn't just a retreat—it was her rhythm. Nestled between the bookshelf and the neural interface hub sat a sleek, transparent sound pod. With just a blink, her favorite playlists filled the air—timeless English melodies, pop ballads, and upbeat anthems that echoed the emotional range of artists long gone but not forgotten.
Sometimes, when the world got too loud, she'd let the music take over.
Music was her rebellion, her therapy, her joy.
Devi felt the world too deeply—crying at old films, remembering birthdays without prompts, carrying the weight of a single conversation for days. In a society driven by logic and speed, her emotional depth made her both fragile and rare. But beneath that softness was quiet steel: a sharp mind shaped by observation, resilience, and purpose. She didn't just want to build machines—she wanted to teach them grace, to make them understand the fragile beauty of being human. And she believed she was meant to lead that change.
She whispered, "Wish me luck, Steve Harrington," before brushing back her braid and stepping barefoot onto the cold floor tiles.
In front of the mirror, she spoke softly to the room:
"Wardrobe – Interview protocol, code: calm confidence."
Her closet opened silently, presenting options. She selected a modern soft-blue tunic with subtle neural-fiber threads that helped regulate temperature and posture. The cut was minimalist, with a cultural collar line and fluid sleeves—sharp, yet gentle. She paired it with sleek adaptive heels and simple silver earrings that tuned to ambient noise.
06:12 AM — Mirror Rehearsal
Standing in front of her AI-integrated mirror REFLECTA, she tapped twice.
A soft glow framed her face.
EMOVEX Interview Simulation: Initiated.
"Name and purpose?" REFLECTA prompt in a warm, neutral tone.
"Devi Iyer," she said. "I'm applying for the position of Empathic Simulation Designer. My goal is to create emotionally rich scenarios that can teach AI to respond with nuanced empathy—so machines can feel without faking it."
"Emotional ethics are a paradox. How do you resolve it?"
She inhaled. "Not everything true can be proven. Emotions are unpredictable, yes, but so are people. That's the whole point—we're not meant to be solved. We're meant to be understood."
REFLECTA responded, "Response recorded. Pulse rhythm stable. Confidence meter: 82%."
She smiled. "Not bad."
"Reminder: Today is your birthday."
She rolled her eyes. "Thanks, REFLECTA. I almost forgot."
"Would you like a motivational quote?"
She laughed softly. "Surprise me."
"Courage is not the absence of emotion—it's the decision to move through it."
She nodded. That's exactly what she planned to do.
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06:22 AM — Kitchen
Downstairs, the kitchen buzzed with quiet morning ritual.
The kitchen was the warmest part of the Iyer home—not by temperature, but by presence. Though sleek interfaces lined the walls and the ambient lighting adapted to emotional moods, the soul of the space still belonged to another century.
On one end, a smart cooking hub hummed softly—a glossy black surface with gesture-controlled modules that could replicate any global recipe in seconds. A holographic recipe assistant hovered quietly nearby, currently paused mid-spice recommendation.
But right beside it, hanging proudly on a brass rack, were cast iron tawas, a stone ammi-kallu for grinding masalas, and a copper pot set handed down from Devi's great-grandmother. These weren't just heirlooms—they were still used, their surfaces worn with flavor and memory.
A small brass urli sat near the window, filled with floating marigolds and jasmine, releasing a faint floral note that always reminded Devi of temple visits as a child.
There was a touch-activated spice wall—each jar labeled in Tamil and English, automatically dispensing exact measurements—but Anaya Iyer never used it. She measured spices with her fingers, instinct, and emotion.
Above the entrance was a voice-chanted prayer bead sensor—as one passed through, it softly recited a line from a morning mantra, filtered through a calming frequency.
And in the corner, tucked on a high shelf, was a small framed photo of Anaya as a little girl, standing beside her mother… grinding chutney on the same stone slab they still used today.
Anaya Iyer, Devi's 55-year-old mother, is a calm and spiritual presence in a rapidly advancing world. With silver-streaked black hair always tied in a low bun, gentle eyes that carry the softness of wisdom, and a face lined with grace rather than age, she holds an air of quiet dignity. Deeply rooted in old traditions, she begins each day with meditation and still lights a diya every evening, holding onto rituals that ground her amidst change. Though she supports Devi's ambitions in the tech-driven world, she often worries about its emotional cost. Her warm, steady energy offers a quiet sanctuary—an anchor of humanity in a society increasingly run by optimization and automation.
Stood barefoot on the cold floor, lighting a diya with steady hands. She wore a soft maroon saree woven with circuits for temperature control—though she never turned it on. Her eyes met Devi's with warmth and worry, always laced with silent prayers.
As Devi stepped in, Anaya turned with a gentle smile and said,
"Happy birthday, kanna."
She cupped Devi's face and kissed her forehead. "You were born just before sunrise. The sky looked just like this."
"You remember every year," Devi mumbled, hugging her tight.
"How can I forget? You made me a mother."
She handed Devi a cup of tulsi tea, followed by a warm plate of ragi idlis with almond chutney and protein-enhanced sambhar—traditional comfort, subtly enhanced by modern nutrition tech.
"Eat something. You can't impress EMOVEX on an empty stomach."
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06:38 AM — Dining Area
At the table,
The dining space flowed organically from the kitchen, open yet distinct, like a memory preserved in the architecture of the future. It was framed by arched doorways etched with subtle Tamil verses, which glowed faintly under motion-sensitive light at dusk.
At the center stood the family dining table, an elegant slab of hand-carved neem wood polished over generations. Though modern in shape—slim, minimalist legs, adaptive seating—the soul of the table remained old. Tiny scuff marks and heat stains whispered of long-forgotten festivals, late-night chai conversations, and school project crises solved over rasam.
Each chair had biometric comfort sensors, adjusting posture support based on who sat down. But Dida still sat cross-legged on a cushioned floor seat at the head of the table, a custom the AI furniture tried (and failed) to override.
An overhead light fixture—shaped like a blooming lotus—shifted color according to the time of day, breakfast in gentle peach tones and dinner in warm gold.
Mounted on one wall was a digital photo frame, cycling through decades of family pictures: black-and-white wedding shots, childhood birthday chaos, Aarav in his VR gear mid-jump, Devi at her high school convocation, Anaya and Raghav on their quiet anniversary retreat. The frame was voice-reactive; sometimes, it would surface a memory in response to conversation.
Against another wall stood a mini shrine alcove, with a small brass Ganesha, incense cartridges, and a soundless aarti simulation that played at mealtimes if someone triggered it with intention—not routine.
The floor beneath the table had soft haptic tiles that warmed gently under bare feet—Dida's only request when the home got its last tech upgrade.
And though a table-side holoscreen could pull up the news or sync with Devi's prep notes, it usually stayed off. Meals were still for talking, teasing, and—when Dida was feeling philosophical—a lesson or two cloaked in an old story.
Raghav Iyer, Devi's 58-year-old father, carries the quiet intellect of a former literature professor turned AI ethics consultant. With salt-and-pepper hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and always seen in his simple, handwoven kurtas paired with smart-glasses, he bridges two worlds with ease. He often quotes Sanskrit proverbs during his neural lectures, weaving emotion into logic with quiet finesse. Though reserved in affection, he is deeply proud of Devi—his love expressed more through thoughtful silences than words. Often found mid-conversation with his neural tablet, Raghav is a man of layered thoughts, believing in the precision of code but never underestimating the chaos of the human heart.
"I still don't trust the Sentience Bill revisions," he muttered. "Too many assumptions about ethical logic gates…"
He looked up, adjusted his reading lens, and finally seemed to notice Devi. His brows lifted slightly.
"Ah. Birthday girl."
Devi blinked. "That's all I get?"
Raghav smirked. "Happy birthday, Devi. May your words be as sharp as your grandmother's tongue."
She laughed. "That's the best blessing I've gotten all year."
He handed her a small envelope—a rare thing in their home. Inside was a printed Sanskrit shloka and a quote:
Emotion is the voice of the soul. Let the machines never take it from you.
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06:52 AM — Aarav Crashes In
Aarav, Devi's 20-year-old younger brother, is a fast-talking, sharp-thinking final-year student at the Neuropoint Institute of Immersive Design. Tall and athletic from constant VR sports and sim workouts, he sports tech-infused streetwear, shifting tees, and AR specs always at the ready. With mischievous dark eyes, tousled black hair, and a pixelated morphing tattoo on his forearm, Aarav thrives in the hyper-digital world. He's studying Cognitive Game Architecture, developing emotionally adaptive VR experiences, and secretly restores vintage games. Though he teases Devi endlessly, his admiration for her runs deep beneath the jokes and bravado.
The kitchen door hissed open and Aarav burst in like a whirlwind, half-dressed in a glimmering bio-suit, munching on synth-toast.
"Yo! Birthday queen!" he shouted, flinging his arms around her in a tight squeeze. "You're so old now. Do your joints make noises yet?"
Devi elbowed him. "You'll get there soon enough."
Aarav grinned. "Happy birthday, Didi. Also—don't mess up today, yeah?"
"She won't," said Anaya, setting down more idlis. "She was born for this."
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07:10 AM — Dida's Blessing
Dida, or Ammayi Iyer, is Devi's 85-year-old grandmother—petite and graceful, with silvery-white hair always tied in a low bun adorned with fresh jasmine. Her deep, weathered skin and faded hazel eyes reflect a life full of stories and quiet strength. She wears earthy handloom sarees and walks with a carved wooden stick more for tradition than support. Once rooted in a peaceful farmhouse outside Madurai with her late husband, she now lives in the city but carries that rural spirit in everything she does—from her herbal remedies to the old seeds she keeps hidden in a wooden box. Wise, witty, and grounded, Dida resists the noise of the high-tech world with folk tales, spiritual rituals, and cryptic advice that always seems to come true. She's Devi's closest confidante, her calming presence when the future feels too loud, and the last thread connecting their family to a more soulful past.
From the back hallway, tiny silver bells jingled as Dida shuffled into the room, wrapped in her worn cotton shawl and draped in peace.
Without a word, she approached Devi and pressed a soft turmeric mark on her forehead. Her touch lingered longer than usual.
"Blessings, Devi. May this year test you and strengthen you. You are light born of old fire."
She pulled Devi for a tight hug and whispered in her ears, "My darling always remember-When the world grows dark and even the stars seem to hide their light, remember that the true song of your heart will always guide you home."
Devi swallowed hard. It was just a birthday. But Dida's words always felt like riddles with consequences.
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07:20 AM — Farewell
Devi tied her hair into a neat braid, adjusted the collar of her soft blue interview tunic, and slipped on her calm-tone earring node. Her interview wristband blinked softly: EMOVEX Interview – 40 Minutes.
She stood by the front door, bag in hand.
Anaya hugged her again, whispering, "You'll do more than fine, kanna."
Raghav gave a firm nod. "Breathe. Think clearly. Feel honestly."
Aarav grinned. "You'll fry their logic circuits. Just smile. You got this."
Dida touched her shoulder gently. "The gods walk beside you, child."
Devi smiled at them all—feeling, for a moment, like every byte of courage had come from this exact place.
"Okay," she said. "I'll make you all proud."
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07:30 AM — Outside the Iyer Home
She stepped outside into the soft gold of the filtered sunrise. The Iyer residence stood quiet and proud—white with warm terracotta trims, real plants woven into the vertical gardens, and a faint scent of agarbatti lingering in the morning air.
The air-car lanes were quiet; birdsong piped through ambient neighborhood speakers. The digital rangoli at the doorstep changed into a blooming lotus as she passed.
Across the street, Vihaan—
Vihaan Rao, 24, is Devi's childhood best friend and quiet admirer—smart, observant, and deeply loyal. Now a Neuro-sensory System Engineer at NEXACORE, he specializes in mapping emotional feedback into artificial brains, though he doubts machines can ever truly feel. Vihaan grew up next door, often quietly watching over Devi, remembering the tiniest details about her while keeping his feelings hidden. With a sharp jawline, kind eyes, and a slight limp from a childhood injury, he carries a thoughtful presence. He prefers earthy-toned clothes, avoids auto-stylers, and keeps his hair slightly long, claiming it helps him think. To Devi, he's always been the steady force behind the chaos.
He is walking his AI-dog PICO. He caught her eye.
"Happy birthday," he called softly. "Break the system today."
She smiled, flustered. "Thanks."
———————————————————————————————————————————
Sarasvati Nexus, Sector 7B
The street glowed with soft white underlay, shifting color based on pedestrian traffic. Hover-trams floated above magnetic rails, silently gliding between sectors. Sky towers loomed above like glass mountains—some curved organically, others sharp like blades. Advertisements flickered on their surfaces: empathy pills, productivity boosters, neural link upgrades.
People moved like algorithms—efficient, emotionless, barely noticing each other. Most wore neutral-toned bodysuits or optic-fiber coats, talking to invisible assistants or reading holograms mid-stride. Devi walked past them like a glitch in the system— her soft eyes, her quiet smile. She stood out, not because of fashion, but because of presence.
Drones buzzed overhead, scanning and updating behavior grids. A couple near a café communicated entirely via brainwave gestures—no words spoken. Two children played a projected sport on a floating screen, their laughter somehow… muffled.
Sarasvati Nexus was clean, safe, and brilliantly designed. But under its perfection was something sterile. A world that had forgotten how to feel.
Devi took a deep breath. The EMOVEX dome glowed in the distance—shimmering like a promise.
She adjusted her satchel, squared her shoulders, and whispered to herself,
"One chance."
The transport pod slid in silently. She stepped in, heart steady.
Her wrist-band confirmed:
Interview at EMOVEX – 08:00 AM sharp.
Birthday: 18.09.2098 – Age: 24
As the door closed, she looked back one last time at the house that had given her traditions, strength, warmth—and something machines would never understand.
What she didn't know was—
this would be the last birthday she ever celebrated in a world that still made sense.