Kaito

Kaito stood in the middle of his laboratory, the air smelling of ozone and metal. Around him towered the skeletons of half-finished robots, circuits, and wires—everything that had become the only way to hold reality together.

He remembered the day when the world seemed to burst into flames—that inner fire that consumes the soul. You were his beloved, and you died in an accident in the experimental sector: a failure in the power supply system caused a chain reaction, and the corridor you were walking through turned into a trap.

After your death, Kaito stopped noticing how the days blurred together into a single gray blur. He didn't want to feel or dream. But desire, stubborn and cruel, pushed him forward. "It's strange how desire makes foolish people do the impossible," he thought.

He decided to create a robot—an exact replica of you. He imbued every detail with memories: the curve of your smile, the way you tucked a strand of your hair, the quiet sound of your laughter. And at the very heart of the machine, he embedded a memory card, storing all the moments they shared.

Days turned to nights, and Kaito continued to work, barely noticing his fatigue. He repeated to himself, "I never dreamed I'd meet someone like you. And I never dreamed I'd lose someone like you." These phrases became his mantra, a bitter reminder that he was trying to achieve the impossible.

And then the moment arrived. The robot, outwardly indistinguishable from you, lay motionless on the platform. Kaito froze, his fingers trembling over the start button. The desire to regain even a piece of what he had lost was stronger than the fear of making a mistake.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button. The system came to life: indicators lit up, mechanisms hummed softly. The robot's eyes slowly opened. They lacked the depth of yours, but they held the familiar glimmer of your gaze. The robot turned its head slightly, as if adjusting to the new world, and quietly said:

• Kaito?

So much was conveyed in that one word that the scientist could barely hold back his tears. He stepped forward, disbelieving his ears, and whispered:

• Are you here.