The rain never really stopped — it only paused, as if drawing breath before another downpour. Cold drops drummed steadily on the roof, veiling the windows in shivering reflections. Moisture clung to the skin, soaked into hair, left a chill on the lips. The world outside lay wrapped in thick, gray folds of fatigue — sounds, smells, even the air suspended in a still, quiet circle.
Oliver glanced at Nora — her face was tense, tired, but unbroken. She didn't speak. She didn't ask. She didn't reach for comfort. Her gaze alone held the command: stay calm.
This was no whim, no request, but a firm command that left no room for choice.
"I'll go check what's out there," Oliver said quietly, his voice sounding strange to him in the damp night.
He didn't explain why he decided to step out first. The reason lay somewhere deep inside, in those quiet corners of his mind he wouldn't dare reveal even to himself. Maybe it was a desire to take responsibility. Maybe an instinct warning that now wasn't the time for unnecessary risk. Or perhaps it was a shadowy voice of fear, pushing him forward while leaving behind everything he held dear.
Oliver stepped onto the wet ground, which squelched beneath his feet, each step sinking deep into the mud. The rain, like a living curtain, wrapped itself around him again, trying to stop him, hold him back, pull him home. But he didn't turn.
The woman moved aside from the door, letting him pass. She watched him calmly and shifted just enough to hold the heavy wooden frame open.
"You acted wisely," she said at last — no pressure in her tone, but certainty all the same. "A night like this is no time for travel. And this is no place for the road." Her voice was soft, almost even, without visible emotion — yet something in it was unyielding, something that insisted on being heard.
Oliver didn't answer. He just nodded — barely — the way people do when there's no trust or doubt left, only the act itself.
He stepped across the threshold.
The house greeted him with the smell of wood — wet, freshly cut — mingled with old dust, warm wax, and something faintly spiced, like cinnamon or dried bay leaf. The air was thick, slightly sticky but not stifling — more like the calm warmth that settles after a long day.
Inside, the light was muted. Small lamps embedded in the walls glowed a dim yellow, like a weary sun had come to rest beneath the ceiling. Soft shadows stirred slowly on the wooden panels lining the walls and ceiling. The floor was dark wood, worn down in places, creaking faintly under each step.
"You can wait it out here," she said — voice restrained, dry, yet threaded with a trace of warmth barely seeping through the stone of her chest.
She led him down a narrow corridor, lined with old paintings and faded fabrics. The room she showed him was plain but inviting — a small bed with a coarse coverlet, a wooden table with a lamp casting soft light, and a window that opened onto nothing but the wall of rain.
"If you need anything," the woman said as she turned away, "just say so."
Oliver nodded and slowly made his way back to the car. His heartbeat matched the rhythm of the rain, while a swarm of thoughts buzzed inside his head — thoughts he couldn't quite catch. But now wasn't the time. He needed to return to his family.
He opened the car door and reached out to Nora, holding the umbrella toward her.
She pulled away, coldly, without looking at him.
"No need," she said, her voice sharp with finality. "I'll go on my own."
She stepped into the rain, which immediately soaked her hair and clothes, leaving dark, wet trails. Her gaze was fixed ahead—calm, resolute. Oliver wanted to call out, to stop her, to shield her somehow, but he stayed silent.
Inside the car, only Eneya remained. She sat still, leaning slightly forward, listening to the rain striking the roof. Slowly, she reached for her backpack, unzipped it, and pulled out her umbrella. She held it on her lap for a few seconds, as if weighing her own resolve.
"Come on, Teo," she whispered, barely turning her head toward the dog.
Teo, lying by her feet, rose and froze—waiting. Eneya had gotten him several years ago. It hadn't been planned—not a gift, not a purchase, but a quiet response to the silence that had begun to creep into the house. She hadn't searched for the perfect robot; she'd simply wanted to fill the emptiness that settled in when voices and laughter began to fade.
Teo wasn't an ordinary machine. His design and movements were modeled after a border collie—a breed known for intelligence, energy, and tireless loyalty. Translating those qualities into artificial intelligence was no easy task, but the developers had created a model that moved fluidly, responded naturally to commands, and even to the moods of those around him.
He was a scaled-down version of the breed—small but quick, with soft synthetic fur that felt warm to the touch. His eyes weren't just lit—they carried a muted, gentle glow, as if trying to echo the presence of a living gaze.
Eneya often carried him like something private, a piece of the familiar world she kept within herself. She didn't talk to him so much as think aloud in his presence, trusting that even without language, he understood her. And though she knew Teo was only a machine, there was an invisible thread of trust between them.
The official name—Technological Experimental Organism No. 78—meant nothing to the family. They simply called him Teo. The word "experimental" wasn't a formality; this model was still in testing, with functions and features in ongoing refinement. Because of that, his behavior could at times be unexpected—quirks and inconsistencies that hinted at unfinished programming. The number 78 marked his year of manufacture.
He had stopped being a device. He became a quiet companion—demanding nothing but attention, offering more than anyone expected from a machine. He reacted to shifts in voice, in expression, in energy. When someone in the family was sad, he would quietly come closer, not because he felt anything, but as if he did.
Sometimes, when Eneya sat alone in her room, she would glance down at Teo lying silently by her feet and feel that he was more than just company. He was a quiet guardian, a thread of stability in a world unraveling too fast. Though made of circuits and code, he had become something far more than technology to her.
To others, he may have looked like just a machine. But to them, he was a piece of home—one they'd never be willing to give up.
Teo didn't demand much care. Occasionally, he needed recharging—a process that took several hours—but the family treated it as a routine task, almost like tending to a living creature. Every two or three weeks, they also replaced special cooling cartridges—small components that protected him from overheating. These simple acts became a habit, a quiet ritual that made Teo not just a device, but part of the home. Little details like these reminded them that beneath his "skin" lay a certain fragility and need for care, like a true friend.
"Daughter, are you coming?" her mother called from the porch. Her voice cut through the silence—soft yet firm, as if gently pulling her daughter from whatever thoughts she'd just sunk into.
Eneya flinched, as though returning from far away. She hugged the umbrella close, lifted Teo into her arms, took a breath—and only then swung the door open sharply. Cold wind rushed in, flooding the air with water. Stepping onto the wet ground, she squinted and opened the umbrella—a wide dark dome that held the rain at bay above her head.
"I'm coming," Eneya said quietly, more to herself than in reply, and headed toward the stairs.
She climbed onto the porch, shaking rain from the sleeve of her jacket. Teo was silent in her arms, still, eyes closed—like a carefully held memory. When she stepped under the awning, only the steady sound of rain remained in the darkness, but the cold that had soaked into her clothes clung closer than she'd have liked.
Nora turned and gently touched her daughter's shoulder.
"Come on, you're drenched. Who taught you to handle an umbrella like that?" she said softly.
Oliver was already standing at the half-open door, turned toward them, holding it.
They entered quietly. The door didn't close right away—the wind caught it briefly, swinging it open again, as if reminding them one last time of what lay outside. Then Oliver closed it behind them.
The hallway was warm—both Nora and Eneya noticed it at once. The air carried not only the scent of spices, but also a trace of fresh, rain-washed air. From the living room came a faint sound: the faded voice of a radio or an old television.
"Come in," the woman called from somewhere deeper in the corridor. Her voice was calm, steady, echoing softly beneath her footsteps. "The living room's to the right. I'll be with you in a moment."
Nora slipped off her shoes. Oliver glanced around, still unsure if they should step farther in. But the hesitation passed—there was peace in this house. He exhaled and removed his shoes as well, at the same time as his daughter.
A woman appeared in the doorway. She looked slightly older than Nora—perhaps in her mid-forties—with fine features and dark hair gathered in a loose bun. She wore a charcoal-colored sweater that looked well-worn, not carelessly, but with a familiar ease.
She didn't smile, but there was no coldness in her eyes.
"Good evening," she said, addressing the women more than anyone else. "I'm Siana. My husband Elias is in the kitchen. You must be soaked. You can change, and then we'll have dinner—get to know each other."
Nora gave a small nod and an awkward smile.
"Thank you for letting us in. And for your kindness," she said, a little shyly. "We're just staying the night. As soon as the car starts in the morning—we'll be on our way. For now..." She glanced briefly at her husband. "We'll probably just rest."
Oliver nodded slowly in agreement, but in the gesture was the faintest shadow of disappointment. Back at the door, he had noticed the living room—tastefully arranged, with a dark bottle of good whiskey sitting discreetly on a distant shelf. He had even pictured it: a brief exchange of glances with the host, a wordless understanding, quietly pouring drinks—two men, strangers perhaps, but grown enough not to need words. But clearly, dinner and rooms had already been arranged. The evening would go another way.
"That's perfectly fine," Siana's voice cut through his thoughts. "I've already prepared a room for you. You and your husband can take the large one upstairs. And your daughter…"
Her eyes paused briefly on Eneya—not coldly, but with quiet attention. She noticed the dog in the girl's arms but said nothing, only stepped aside.
"…And for your daughter," she continued, "a small room near the attic. It's quiet there. I think it'll suit her. You all need a bit of space to rest. You're tired."
"That's… very thoughtful," Nora said after a pause.
"Dinner will be soon," Siana added, already turning down the hall. "If you change your mind, you're welcome to join."
Her steps were soft, her movements familiar, drifting through the corridor with detached calm. As if this had happened before. And would again.
Eneya stood there, slightly hunched, absently tracing the top of one foot with the big toe of the other—a habit she'd had since childhood, surfacing whenever she felt awkward or wished she could disappear. Teo remained still in her arms, but as always, there was something warm about him. Like a piece of home she carried with her.
She looked up. Siana had already vanished around the corner. Her words lingered in the air—not so much an invitation as a quiet directive.
The family drifted apart down the hallway—each heading in a different direction, searching for a quiet harbor to rest in. Nora walked slowly beside Eneya, her hand resting gently on her daughter's shoulder, as if trying to pass on whatever strength she had left after the long day. They moved down the narrow corridor, their soft footsteps echoing against the empty walls. Eneya stroked Teo gently, feeling a faint vibration in his body.
Oliver walked a little off to the side. His steps were steady, but the dark wooden floor beneath him bore the marks he left behind—faint wet patches from soaked socks that had long since given up keeping out the rain. Each step felt like a quiet reminder of the evening's unpredictability.
The doors to their rooms closed one after another, and for a moment, the house sank into silence, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves outside the window.
Eneya gently set Teo down beside the bed.
Nora took her daughter's hand and gave it a light squeeze, as if trying to confirm she was truly there—here and now.
"Are you very tired?" she asked softly, looking into her eyes.
"No," Eneya replied quietly, glancing away. "It's just… everything feels a little strange. But with Teo here, it's easier."
Nora smiled gently.
"Tomorrow's a new day. For now, try to get some rest."
Eneya only nodded, without a smile, and said:
"I'm sure you're more tired than I am. So please… spend the evening without fighting."
Nora froze for a second, as if not expecting that kind of answer. Her smile faded slightly, and her eyes filled with a quiet mix of understanding and faint surprise.
"You're right," she whispered. "It really has been a long day. Good night, Eneya. Sleep well."
She gently touched her daughter's shoulder, then turned back toward the hallway, leaving behind a silence filled with unspoken tenderness—and uncertainty.
Oliver stepped into the room slowly, releasing a heavy breath. His shoulders slumped as he pulled off the light jacket, soaked through with cold rain. The fabric still trickled faintly, water slipping down in quiet rivulets. Underneath, his shirt—thin and damp—clung to his skin, chilled from just a few minutes out in the storm. He peeled it off, feeling the cold spread across his back and shoulders, tingling his skin. Then he removed his socks, folded them neatly, and looked around the room, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of the desk lamp. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if trying to smother the tension with routine.
Then the door opened—softly, almost silently.
Nora stepped inside. Her gaze swept the room with quiet attention. She took a step forward but stayed at a distance, holding back the emotions that churned beneath the surface.
"I know this didn't turn out the way we planned," Oliver said, his voice calm, but carrying the weight of something strained underneath.
"Yes," she answered simply, her tone tinged with bitterness.
Silence filled the room again, broken only by the faint tapping of rain at the window.
Nora took another step forward, but didn't come closer—as if deliberately keeping space between them. She inhaled deeply, trying to hold herself steady.
"I hope tomorrow will be different," she said quietly.
Oliver nodded.
"So do I," he replied, his voice firm and restrained.
She turned slowly and sat on the bed.
Oliver glanced around the room and sighed. The bed was large, but now it felt foreign—foreign like the night itself. He knew that for a long time he and Nora had been sleeping apart—not out of anger or quarrels, but because an invisible wall had formed between them, one that wasn't easy to cross.
Without a word, Oliver sat down on the floor beside the bed, carefully folded his jacket into a pillow, and lay back. The floor was warm, offering a surprising comfort, while the cool, late evening lingered just beyond the walls. Somewhere far off, silence hung in the air—one not easily challenged. Oliver closed his eyes, trying to drown out the heavy thoughts, knowing that this night—like so many others—would pass in solitude, even under the same roof.
Nora sat quietly on the bed, watching him. There was something unreadable in her gaze—a blend of worry, regret, and an unspoken question. She knew there were too many things left unresolved between them, and this silence weighed more than words ever could. But for now, she said nothing, just watched Oliver settle into his lonely place. With a barely audible sigh, she lay down, turned away, and closed her eyes, trying to find peace in the quiet that stretched between them.