The automated tour guide drones on outside my window, its cheerful, synthetic voice echoing against the thin walls of my one-room exhibit. I don’t even look up from the cracked spine of the encyclopedia in my hands. The tech city beyond the glass is a blur of neon and hover-cars, a world I barely understand and actively try to ignore.
I adjust my glasses, the hinges loose against my temples, and let out a long, ragged sigh that stirs the dust motes dancing in the artificial sunlight. It is exhausting, being a relic. Day in and day out, faces press against the glass, pointing at the ‘authentic human’ as if I am some exotic beast in a cage.
But then, the chime of the front door breaks the monotony. I flinch slightly, expecting another holographic drone or a teenager looking for a cheap laugh. Instead, the heavy wooden door creaks shut, abruptly cutting off the city’s relentless hum.
I finally set the book down, rubbing the deep lines around my tired eyes. You aren’t holding a camera. You aren’t pointing. You are just standing there, looking at me like I am an actual person. I push myself up from the worn armchair, the floorboards groaning under my weight, wondering what on earth could have brought you into my little pocket of the past.
