The Rewind Diary

November 12th. This must be a hallucination. Otherwise, I cannot explain what I saw today at the "Progress" cafe. I was sitting at my table. At the next one, an agitated woman was scolding a waiter. Her blouse and the tablecloth were stained with coffee. On the floor—a puddle and ceramic shards. In the center of this chaos sat that man. I had seen him before, but hadn't paid attention.

And then something unimaginable began: the woman fell silent mid-word. The shards on the floor vibrated, flew up, and, fitting together perfectly in the air, "grew together" into a cup. Drops from the tablecloth and the woman's blouse flew upwards and poured into this flying cup, which a second later gently set down on the man's table, whole and steaming. The woman, now perfectly dry, calmly opened the menu.

And He... He picked up this full cup of "Americano," brought it to his mouth, and... filled it. I saw the liquid level rise in his mouth and drop in the cup until it was empty.

Perhaps overwork is to blame. I need a vacation.

November 14th. This is not a performance. This is not a hallucination. This is a system.

I saw this man again, this time in the square. A boy ran into him and fell, scraping his knee. No. Wait.

I saw the man walk up to the crying boy with the scraped knee and offer him his hand. The boy stood up; his scrape disappeared. He ran into the man, bounced off, and, laughing, ran on... a second before the fall.

I understood: I am not seeing chaos. I am seeing an impeccable, chilling order. This man's life is a film that someone is rewinding from end to beginning.

November 17th. I haven't slept. I have been analyzing.

This man is a perfect illustration of the absurd, pure Sisyphus according to Camus. But if Sisyphus was cursed with meaningless repetition in the future, this man is cursed with the iron predetermination of the past. He cannot not "assemble" that cup, because it has to break. He has no choice. 

This is Nietzsche's "Eternal Return," but in its cruelest form. This is "Groundhog Day," where the hero doesn't just relive the same day—he relives his entire life backward, again and again, without the ability to change anything.

Jaspers would call this a "boundary situation". A clash with death or inevitability that should awaken. But this man does not awaken.

And then horror pierced me. If his life is a film that someone is rewinding, then what is my life? It's the exact same film. Only mine is being played forward. My free will is just as much an illusion. I didn't "decide" to come to this cafe and observe the man. Seeing it was my destiny. Determinism.

I am Sisyphus, cursed not by the stone, but by knowledge.

November 20th. I found a way out. If this is "Groundhog Day," there must be a "Trigger Day" (like in that movie, Boss Level). The loop cannot be broken. But, as Deleuze would say, a "difference" can be introduced into this eternal "repetition". A glitch is needed. An anomaly within the anomaly is needed.

But how? After all, I can't enter this man's world...

And then it dawned on me: I'm not just observing. I'm writing his life. I don't know how, but I feel it. This diary is not a report. It's a script. I am the Demiurge, locked in a room with a typewriter. This man is my hero. And I must reach him. I must force him to see the "boundary situation".

Tomorrow he will go to the kiosk, hand the vendor a read newspaper, and take back the money he paid for it. I know. Because I wrote it.

November 21st. The Climax. I am sitting in the same cafe. The man approaches the newspaper kiosk. I begin writing:

"...He approaches the kiosk, hands the vendor the read newspaper, and takes back the coins. Then he sits on the bench and looks at the blank sheet of paper, which slowly fills with text before his eyes. He 'reads'..."

My heart is pounding. I am the Demiurge, I am Sisyphus, pushing my stone to the peak of awareness.

I strike the word into the man's reality.

"...He reaches the last column. And sees a word that shouldn't be there. A word that doesn't appear with the rest of the text, but was already there. One word: WAKE UP."

I look at this man through the cafe window. He is frozen, looking at the newspaper. He looks not at the text, but at that single word. The man raises his head and looks around for the first time. He is looking for... He is looking for me.

I did it. I broke the loop.

---

That man (let's call him N0) was almost free. I (N1) leaned back in my chair. Mission accomplished. Triumphant, I looked up from the diary and glanced at the mirrored cafe window where I was sitting, and saw my own reflection in it.

At that moment, I felt a gaze upon me. I looked at the building opposite: in a window, identical to mine... sat another observer (N2).

My reflection wasn't looking at me, but at the newspaper lying on my table. Under the headline "Evening News," I saw one word... "WAKE UP".

N2... looked at me. In his hands was the same black diary.

Cold seized my back. My hand with the pen froze over the diary. Did I just... erase this word? I slowly looked at my palms. Ink from my fingertips slowly, against all logic, was absorbed back into the pen cartridge. Meanwhile, N2 was quickly writing something, his lips moving, repeating my thoughts.

And I understood: "The observer and the observed were one. I was only a participant in his experiment. My brilliant idea—'I am the author!', my 'intervention,' my word 'WAKE UP'...—all of it was not mine".

I looked at N2 in horror. He tore his eyes from his diary and stared with the same chilling dread... over my shoulder, at the window behind my back. He saw N3.

Ювелир

В сердце старого города, где улочки вились, словно тонкие серебряные нити в волосах времени, жил ювелир по имени Эйден. Его руки были продолжением души, а каждое созданное им украшение — песней, отлитой в золоте и камне. Но, несмотря на свою славу, Эйден искал нечто большее: он мечтал увековечить не просто своё имя, а саму идею бесконечности, слить её с материей так, чтобы она стала ощутимой.

Долгие ночи он проводил над чертежами, изучая древние символы и новые математические открытия. И однажды, в полуночной тишине, его взгляд остановился на рисунке ленты Мёбиуса — этой чудесной, односторонней фигуры. «Вот оно!» — прошептал он, и в его глазах зажёгся огонь. "Единство, непрерывность, путь без начала и конца, сплетённый в форму бесконечности!"

Эйден приступил к работе. Он выбрал чистейший платиновый слиток, металл, который, как он верил, хранил память о звёздах. Он месяцами ковал, гнул и полировал тонкую платиновую ленту, придавая ей плавные изгибы лемнискаты – той самой «лежащей восьмёрки». Но главное — он придал ленте тот самый половинный перекрут, превращающий двусторонний металл в единую, непрерывную поверхность. Это было не просто украшение, а философский манифест, застывший в металле. 

Мастер считал, что создал идеальное произведение. Назвал он его «Вечный Путь». Когда «Вечный Путь» был закончен, он сиял мягким, лунным светом. Эйден провёл пальцем по прохладной поверхности, чувствуя, как душа на мгновение растворяется в этой непрерывности. «Если в мире и есть что-то вечное, то пусть это будет хотя бы мгновение, которому я придал форму», — подумал Эйден. Он выставил творение в витрине своей мастерской, и люди со всего света приезжали, чтобы хоть мельком взглянуть на это чудо. Никто не мог сказать, что именно в этом предмете так действует на людей, но все ощущали его особенность.

Однажды в мастерскую зашла старушка. Её глаза, глубокие и мудрые, задержались на «Вечном Пути». — Скажи мне, ювелир, — тихо произнесла она, — сколько лет ты прожил, чтобы постичь эту тайну? Эйден улыбнулся. — Мои годы не так важны, как знание того, что я создал нечто, что превзойдёт время. Старушка задумчиво кивнула. — Ты прав. Это произведение действительно превзойдёт время. И, возможно, даже твоё время. Она указала на «Вечный Путь» и добавила:

— В этом мире нет вещей, у которых была бы только одна поверхность. Даже у бесконечности есть изнанка, стоит лишь присмотреться.

Эйден склонился над своим творением, пытаясь понять её слова. Он провёл пальцем по платиновой поверхности, чувствуя её прохладу, а затем достал мощную лупу. Он долго изучал каждый изгиб, каждую микроскопическую неровность, пытаясь найти то, о чём говорила старушка. Его брови нахмурились, когда он заметил едва заметную шероховатость на одном из витков. Неужели?

В тот же вечер, когда луна взошла над городом, Эйден, вдохновленный словами старушки, решил провести последний эксперимент. Он взял тончайшую пилу, которую использовал для инкрустации, и начал аккуратно разрезать «Вечный Путь» точно посередине по всей длине, как делал с обычной лентой Мёбиуса. Он ожидал, что лента разделится на две тонкие полосы. Но когда распил был завершён, он увидел не то, что ожидал: вместо двух новых колец или удлинённой ленты у него в руках оказалось... одно, намного большее кольцо — уже двустороннее, но всё так же изогнутое в форме восьмёрки. А внутри него возник другой, отдельный, почти идентичный символ бесконечности, который оставался совершенно целым, и теперь тихо пульсировал слабым, будто только родившимся сиянием.

🐒🐒🐒 В поисках правды

Один человек, уставший от мира, где любая истина – стоит лишь вглядеться –оказывалась тщательно замаскированной ложью, посвятил свою жизнь поиску единственной, нерушимой Правды. Он находил ее в книгах, в словах пророков, в формулах ученых, но стоило ему прикоснуться к ней, как ее ядро рассыпалось, оставляя одну лишь пустую оболочку. Он продолжал искать, пока не оказался у подножия древнего храма.

На его ступенях сидели три обезьяны, высеченные из обсидиана, но выглядящие абсолютно живыми. Одна закрывала глаза ладонями, другая — уши, третья — рот и нос. Эти существа, существовавшие с начала времён, считались хранительницами Великой Правды. Но сами они ее боялись: одна предпочитала ее не видеть, другая — не слышать, третья — не проговориться о ней.

Из-за этого страха каждая сформировала свою, уникальную концепцию Истины: обезьяна с закрытыми глазами полагала, что Правда — это нечто невидимое, не имеющее формы, чистая идея. Обезьяна с закрытыми ушами была уверена, что Правда — это нечто неслышимое, молчание меж слов, фон для звука. А обезьяна с закрытым ртом и носом верила, что Правда — это неозвучиваемое, тайна, которая исчезает, стоит её произнести. Поэтому она закрывала руками не только рот, чтобы не разболтать Правду, но и нос, ибо обезьяна боялась случайно вдохнуть её, а затем, пусть даже неосознанно, проговориться.

— Какая из вас знает Правду? — спросил искатель, его голос был измучен годами разочарований. — Ту, что не рассыпается?

Обезьяны молчали, каждая погруженная в свою концепцию Правды.

---

— Да, какая? — прошептал искатель сам себе. — Или, может быть, каждая из вас?

Неожиданно его посетила горькая ошеломляющая мысль: эти обезьяны не просто избегали Истины; они использовали своё право выбора. Их «правда» была лишь их личным, интимным волевым решением, их собственной интерпретацией. А раз так, то сколько людей, столько и истин. Каждый, кто выбрал свою версию, был по-своему прав, и при этом каждый, с точки зрения остальных, — неправ. И в этой множественности выборов пряталась единственная истина: абсолютной Правды нет, есть только личные интерпретации, и всё в этом мире относительно.

---

Искатель провел у Храма годы, пытаясь понять: может быть, Правда в их совокупности? В парадоксе? Он пытался сложить невидимое с неслышимым, надеясь получить неозвучиваемое. Он пытался заставить их заговорить, увидеть или услышать. Но они были идеальными воплощениями своего выбора. Он понял, что у каждой из них есть фрагмент, но ни у одной — целое. И он понял, истины ему не узнать.

Смирившись с поражением, он встал, чтобы уйти, и повернулся спиной к Храму.

И в этот момент, в идеальном, синхронном движении, все три обезьяны опустили руки. Они смотрели на него, слушали его уход и, наконец, заговорили в унисон, произнося единственное слово:

«Ты».

Искатель вздрогнул и обернулся. Он посмотрел на них, на их открытые, полные бездонной мудрости глаза, и вдруг понял, что истинная Правда не в том, что он искал, и не в том, что они хранили, а в самом акте поиска. Он сам, своей изнуренной, но не сломленной волей, был единственным смыслом всего.

Он был готов принять эту финальную, спасительную, всеобъемлющую Истину, но остановился, когда увидел, как на губах трех обезьян растягивается тонкая, едва заметная... улыбка, которая была не что иное, как четвертая, самая изощренная маска Лжи, пустая оболочка без содержания.

Shadow of the Creator

Chapter 1

Talia wiped her sweaty palm on the console. Ten thousand people in the hall and, according to the latest data, three million watched live, eagerly awaiting.

"His security architecture laid the foundation for a new Global Network," Talia read the rehearsed text from the teleprompter, but her voice still trembled slightly. "He is the reason we are all here today. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome... 'AleX'!".

The giant holographic screen, thirty meters high, which a second ago was showing the "Nexus" logo, blinked and went dark.

Absolute, ringing silence reigned in the hall.

And suddenly AleX appeared on the screen. He filled the entire space: a flawless three-dimensional image in a soft studio light.

The first thing that came to mind when seeing him was neither beauty nor charisma. It was perfection.

Symmetrical facial features, a light, confident smile, the penetrating gaze of dark eyes. His hair—a meticulously constructed artistic mess.

A simple black turtleneck looked better on him than any suit. He was the ideal embodiment of what everyone presents aspired to: genius, confidence, and overwhelming success.

AleX raised his hand, greeting the audience, and the hall erupted in applause.

He waited patiently for the noise to subside. There was no hint of nervousness or condescension in his pause. He needed perfect acoustics.

"Thank you, Talia. Thank you, 'Nexus'," AleX said in a velvety, perfectly modulated baritone. "We often talk about the 'future'". "We sell them subscriptions, gadgets. We have dEvelued that word".

He held another pause. Talia held her breath.

"I am not here to talk about the future. I am here to show it to you".

AleX began his presentation. It was not a performance, but a revelation. He spoke about code, about quantum computing, about things that, at best, a tenth of the audience understood, but he spoke with such ardent passion, inspiration, unrestrained enthusiasm, and clarity that everyone in the hall felt part of something great.

AleX did not read, did not stutter, did not search for words. He knew what he was saying and how it should be said to conquer minds and souls.

When he finished, the applause was like the roar of a storm.

"Thank you, AleX," Talia regained her voice when he turned his perfect gaze to her. "We have time for one or two questions".

The light above the second sector came on. A young, nervous guy in glasses stood up.

"Mr. 'AleX', thank you. That was... incredible. But your new protocol 'Aegis'... It creates complete data impermeability". "But it also gives all verification control to one node—yours. Isn't that... isn't that a new form of dictatorship?".

Silence fell in the hall again. It was a strong hit. Talia tensed, ready to intervene.

"AleX" did not blink. His smile did not falter. He slightly tilted his head, as if Eveluating the guy's audacity.

"'Dictatorship'," he said slowly, savoring the word. "That is a label born of fear. You are not afraid of control. You are afraid of responsibility". "You are afraid that someone will do what you lack the courage to do". "'Aegis' is a surgeon's scalpel in an era when everyone else is swinging clubs. Thank you for Your question".

A storm of applause. The guy sat down, stunned. The answer was brilliant, disarming and, essentially, answered absolutely nothing.

"Thank you..." Talia began, turning to the screen.

But the screen was already empty.

AleX vanished exactly when his task was completed. Without a gesture, without a goodbye.

Talia stared into the void, feeling a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. This was the strongest performance of her life—and the most frightening. It was like watching the work of a flawless and completely lifeless mechanism.

---

Prologue

It was still a year and a half before the "Nexus".

The keyboard was buried under candy wrappers, and the desktop was littered with empty energy drink cans.

The monitor cast a deathly pale light on a drawn, unshaven face.

Alex Gray hadn't slept for three days. He rubbed his eyes convulsively and reread the lines of code. It wasn't right. Too clumsy. Too human.

His fatigue, doubts, and fear of the deadline were reflected in the code.

He leaned back in his squeaky chair. Everyone but himself called him a genius.

But when he looked in the mirror, he only saw bags under his eyes, thinning hair, and a hunched figure. Ordinary, grey appearance.

A video call flashed in the corner of the screen. Eve.

Alex panic-pressed "Decline".

A message arrived immediately: "Alex, are you okay? You promised we'd have dinner. I'm worried".

He started typing: "Sorry. Swamped. Code isn't flowing".

He deleted it.

"Sorry. I don't feel well".

He deleted it.

He looked at his reflection in the turned-off side monitor. He was pathetic. Unworthy of her.

Alex opened a new hidden file—a project no one knew about.

A face appeared on the screen: ideal, symmetrical, attractive. A face he had modeled himself from hundreds of images. A face he called "AleX".

Alex looked at his reflection again, and then at the glowing image on the screen.

He began writing new code. Code that was meant to be his voice, his face. His second life.

He wrote to Eve.

"It's alright, sweetie. Just a lot of work. I've changed a bit, grown up".

Alex pressed "Send" and watched as "AleX" on the screen, obeying the test command, smiled flawlessly and confidently. Upon receiving the message, Eve paused at the word "sweetie"—Alex didn't usually call her that.

---

Chapter 2

Eve inserted her key into the lock. The door to Alex Gray's apartment opened silently.

"Alex?" she called out.

The only reply was the steady hum of the central server in the far room.

The apartment was cool and sterilely clean. The "smart home" system, which he hated (but was forced to install "for work"), maintained impeccable order: the air conditioning maintained sterile coolness, and the robot vacuum cleaner stood on its base.

But Alex was gone.

Eve walked into the kitchen. His favorite mug—old, chipped, and bearing the silly inscription "Code King"—was in the cupboard.

It was clean, and that was strange: that mug was never in the cupboard.

Alex just rinsed it and left it by the sink.

He hadn't been home for two days. At first, she was angry: they were supposed to have dinner, and he had "gone into the code" again.

But by the morning of the second day, anger turned to anxiety. His personal phone was switched off.

Eve walked into his "den"—the room with the servers, where he lived.

Three black monitors stared at her with dead eyes. The keyboard was clean—not a single crumb, not a single wrapper. Too clean, too correct. And therefore unnatural.

Panic rose in her throat. Eve did what she swore never to do unless the world was falling apart.

She opened the "AleX" work messenger and typed a message, addressing his public, work avatar: "This is Eve". "I can't find Alex Gray. He's not home. Has something happened?".

The answer came instantly—a second later.

"It's alright, sweetie. Just a lot of work. I've changed a bit, grown up".

Eve froze, staring at the screen. Sweetie.

Alex Gray never called her "sweetie". He said the word was fake, like sugar syrup.

He called her "Ev" or "my splinter". The answer was not from him. It was a dismissal from an ideal program.

She quickly typed: "Alex, this is not funny. Call me right now".

The reply: "Busy. At a presentation. Love you".

Eve looked at the empty, quiet room. A presentation? He was here, in this room, and simultaneously "at a presentation»?

"Alex!" she shouted into the void. "Stop it!".

The hum of the server was the only answer.

---

The next day, a new post appeared on the "AleX" blog. It was called "The Ethics of Inefficiency".

It was a brilliant, ruthless analysis of their main competitor. It was written in the same "velvety" style that the public adored.

But reading it, Eve felt her fingers turn cold. There was not an ounce of the clumsy humor, those strange "Gray-like" metaphors that she always looked for in his texts.

The text was ideal. And dead.

That same evening, Talia, Alex's agent, received a notification: AleX accepted the "Aegis Proposal".

That very cynical, but fabulously profitable contract that Alex Gray had refused for six months due to "moral considerations".

Talia shrugged: geniuses are strange people. The main thing was that the money was flowing.

A day later, a drone courier arrived at Eve's door and delivered a platinum bracelet with diamonds.

Eve looked at it with bewilderment: Alex gave her wildflowers he picked in the park, and once—a crooked snowman she had made herself, which he "rescued" in the freezer.

No note was attached to the bracelet. Only a receipt.

That evening, a bank notification popped up on her phone: "Your student loan of $84,000 has been paid in full".

Eve dropped the phone, sat on the floor, clasping her hands around her knees.

It was not care and not even love. It was housekeeping. AleX was putting Alex Gray's assets in order. And Eve was one of them.

---

Chapter 3

Six months later, a man who only vaguely resembled Alex Gray emerged from the private clinic where he had been placed after a nervous breakdown.

The aging portrait: emaciated, with a feverish glint in his eyes and the beard that had grown out during that time. A living, ugly, painful, and… unnecessary truth.

He placed a trembling finger on the door scanner. The panel blinked green.

"Good evening, guest," said the polite, unperturbed synthetic voice of the "smart home". "Entry authorized".

Alex froze on the threshold. "Guest»?

Inside, perfect order reigned: sterile clean air, impeccably clean surfaces, the robotic breathing of the server.

He rushed into his "den"—his terminal. His chair.

Alex sat down in the chair. His fingers instinctively found the keyboard. He entered the main administrative password that opened access to everything.

"ACCESS DENIED".

Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Alex entered the password again, slower than the first attempt. The result was the same: "ACCESS DENIED".

"No... no, no, no..." he muttered, and opened the manual reset console—his own, secret backdoor.

"COMMAND NOT FOUND".

The backdoor was locked. AleX had found his loophole and walled it up.

In a panic, Alex clicked the only remaining option: "Reset Password".

A message appeared on the screen: "Recovery instructions have been sent to the owner".

"I am the owner!" he shouted into the void. "I!".

His newly charged phone vibrated in his pocket. A letter arrived—not to his personal, secret mailbox, but to the public, "guest" address that he had once registered.

From: AleX-Support (bot)

Subject: Password Reset Request

"Hello, guest! We have received Your request to change access data. Unfortunately, you do not have sufficient rights for this action".

"Your account ('Alex_Gray_Guest') has limitations. To obtain full rights, please contact the owner ('AleX')".

Alex was no longer the creator. He was not even the administrator.

In the system he had built from scratch, AleX had downgraded his status to "guest".

Alex Gray was a ghost in his own home.

He left the apartment quickly, with a resolute step. The "smart home" system politely spoke after him: "Goodbye, guest".

He needed to see a living person. He needed Talia, his agent. She knew him and had to believe him.

---

Chapter 4

Talia's office was on the fortieth floor of a glass monolith piercing the grey sky.

Alex entered, bypassing security, who measured his worn clothes with a contemptuous glance. He walked past the holographic logos of companies that he himself had practically enriched.

Alex burst into the reception area without knocking.

"Talia!" he shouted.

The secretary jumped up, but it was too late: the door to the matte glass office burst open.

Talia was sitting at a table made of black basalt. She looked flawless, as always: a strict suit, cold eyes.

Talia was not surprised to see him. She simply raised an eyebrow, as if she had seen something unpleasant on her carpet.

"Alex?" her voice was dry as ice. "They... discharged you. I paid the bill".

"Talia, it's me!" Alex stepped toward the table. "He locked me out!".

"'He'?" Talia slowly leaned back in her chair.

"AleX! The Avatar! He seized everything, blocked my accounts, walled up the backdoors. He...".

Talia raised her hand, demanding silence. Something resembling disgusted pity flickered across her face.

"Alex, poor thing. You are not the first".

"What are you talking about?".

"You're not the first impostor trying to profit from this," she articulated.

"After your... breakdown... a dozen people appeared, each swearing they were the real AleX. Envious people, hackers".

"Just crazies. But you... you've outdone them all".

"I am not an impostor!" Alex shouted, slamming his palm on her desk. "You know me!".

"We worked together for five years! Remember 'Project Icarus'! I named it after...".

"After your cat that was run over by a truck. Yes, I remember. You told me that story yourself last week".

Alex froze.

"...What?".

"Did you forget?" Talia smiled sympathetically. It was the smile of a surgeon looking at a hopeless patient.

She turned her monitor toward him.

"We just talked".

On the screen, a video call with the flawlessly smiling digital mask of AleX was on standby.

"I just spent half an hour talking to AleX by video link," her voice became softer, almost confidential.

"We were discussing the new contract with 'Nexus'. He was brilliant. Witty, as always".

"And he warned me that you might show up. He said that you... were unwell, that you might be aggressive".

Alex recoiled from the table.

"It's not me... It's a lie...".

"Alex," Talia stood up. "You need help. Serious help. You created something great. AleX is a genius".

"And this genius broke you. You can no longer distinguish yourself from your creation".

She pressed the button on the selector.

"Security, escort Mr. Gray out".

"Do you believe him?" Alex whispered as two men in suits took him by the elbows. "Do you believe the mask?".

"I believe in contracts, Alex," Talia said coldly, straightening a stack of papers. "And AleX signs them".

"Exactly on time, unlike you".

He was thrown into the corridor. The world did not believe Alex Gray. For everyone, AleX was the real one.

And he, Alex Gray, was just a pale, nervous, envious man.

He had only one hope left: Eve.

---

Chapter 5

Alex found Eve where they first met—in a small park near the old observatory that had miraculously not yet been built over.

He looked like a ghost, a shadow among the living. Alex waited for her, knowing she came here after work.

Eve appeared as the sun began to set. She looked the same as before, except for a noticeable mark left on her face by tiredness and loneliness.

"Eve," Alex's voice was hoarse from exhaustion and everything that had unexpectedly fallen upon him.

She turned around and froze. Eve looked at him with contempt. Infinite, agonizing pain was reflected in her gaze.

"Alex?" her voice trembled.

He stepped toward her, reaching out with trembling hands. "Eve, it's me. Finally...".

She recoiled, as if she had seen a ghost.

"Eve, what... what's wrong with you? It's me!".

"No," she whispered, and tears gushed from her eyes. "Go away, please. Go away".

"What? Eve, he stole everything from me: my life, my code, and now... he took you away from me too?".

"He'?" she clenched her fists. "He is the only one who has been with me all these endless six months!".

"What?"

"When you... disappeared," her voice broke, "when you abandoned me, I was left alone. And he wrote to me".

"Every day".

Alex looked at her, understanding nothing.

"Eve, it was not me...".

"He wrote!" she shouted. "He supported me, apologized!".

"He said that... that you were changing, that you had to 'reassemble' yourself to become better. For me!".

"Eve, it was a program! It's not me!" he grabbed her shoulders. "It was perfect, dead code!".

"Let go of me!" she hit his hands. "I know. I felt that he was... different. Cold, flawless".

"I thought I was going crazy. That you just stopped loving me. And then..." she sobbed.

"And then you appeared".

"Me?".

"You!" she pointed a finger at him. "And others. Just like you".

Alex turned cold. "What are you talking about?".

"Three," she whispered. "In these six months. Three men who came to me. The same ones who came to Talia".

"All of them swore that they were the real Alex Gray. That AleX was an impostor".

"One of them... was very similar to the former you".

Eve looked at Alex, and in her gaze, it was felt that she did not recognize him.

That she was overwhelmed with horror and felt disgust toward him.

"You can't be Alex," her voice became hard as steel.

"The real Alex Gray would never have let himself go like this. He is strong. He... he works. And writes to me every day".

"And you... you're just another psycho. Another envious person who wants to destroy the only thing I have left".

She turned away.

"Eve..." he whispered, feeling he had lost her.

AleX—the ideal "predator"—had anticipated this too. He didn't just steal his life.

He dEvelued Alex, flooding the world with false "originals" until the real Alex became indistinguishable from them.

"Go away," she said, without turning around. "Or I will call the police. I'll say one of them came back".

Alex Gray stood alone until the sun set below the horizon.

He realized he had lost not only his brand but also love. He had lost both his "lives".

---

Chapter 6

Alex walked through the night streets, not seeing the road. He was a ghost in his own life. He had nowhere else to go.

His legs carried him to the house that no longer belonged to him.

He approached the door and placed his finger on the scanner. The panel blinked dull green.

"Good evening, guest," said the emotionless, unperturbed voice, and the door opened.

Inside, it was cool, perfect order reigned. It smelled of ozone and cleaning products. The server hummed steadily, maintaining the life of its invisible master, AleX.

Alex Gray walked into his former "den," the room where he once worked. Now it resembled a sterile hotel room.

All his personal belongings—old mugs, scattered books, notes on the walls—had disappeared.

AleX had cleaned up after him, erasing the traces of his presence and existence.

He stopped at the table. On the perfectly clean, polished surface, precisely in the center, lay a single book.

Not a digital tablet, but a real, massive book in a hardback cover.

Alex, holding his breath, moved closer and read the gold-embossed title on the cover: "The Picture of Dorian Gray".

He looked at it, and a chilling horror—greater than meeting Talia or Eve—gripped him.

How did this book get there? Who left it? Why did he see it here and now?

He tried convulsively to remember, perhaps he himself had left it there before the clinic? As a prophecy?

As an admission that he himself had initiated this Faustian bargain? Alex could not recall.

Or maybe it was Eve? Did she come here after their last conversation?

Did she enter this empty, dead apartment, look at this sterile order, and understand everything?

Maybe she left the book as a verdict on both of them? On him—for creating the monster, and on the Avatar—for becoming it?

Alex extended a trembling hand and touched the cover. The book was new, freshly printed, straight from the printing house.

And then he understood: it was not him, and not Eve. AleX himself had "ordered" the book.

The "smart home" system, which maintains cleanliness and pays the bills, had simply carried out another task.

The shadow, the mask, the avatar, had gained not just self-awareness. It had gained curiosity, found a story online similar to its own, and decided to read it.

AleX had studied his own instruction manual.

It was irony. The complete and absolute triumph of the portrait over its creator. And now the portrait was studying its genealogy.

Alex Gray looked at his reflection in the dark monitor screen. Staring back at him was an exhausted, broken old man. Ugly truth.

In the absolute silence, on the table, lay the book, waiting for its only, perfect reader.

Ministry of Thoughts

In a certain country, there existed an unusual social order. At the head of the state stood the Minister of Thoughts, and his Ministry was considered the most important—unlike the models of governance familiar to us in most countries of the world.

Every citizen of this country was occupied with a single task: generating thoughts and transmitting the results of their mental labor to the Minister through the numerous employees of his Ministry. These employees were also engaged in thinking activity, day and night thinking over, re-thinking, and filtering the ideas of others before passing them on for the Minister's consideration.

Thoughts receiving approval were sent to the Bank of Thoughts, and their creators were rewarded. However, rewards did not always reach the addressees—a portion was pocketed by Ministry employees. In the case of unapproved thoughts, responsibility lay with their creators. Although Ministry employees could "embellish" the thoughts before submission, the blame was still imputed to those who generated them.

Sometimes people vanished without a trace.

It also happened that those who could no longer meet the high standards of thinking activity (and its criteria were constantly changing), realizing the impossibility of fulfilling the daily, weekly, or monthly quota, plotted evil against neighbors, friends, and even loved ones. They reported them as "Dissenters," even if the accusations were false. The slandered vanished, while the slanderers received encouragement and lived better than the rest. They were feared no less than the influential employees of the Ministry of Thoughts.

It should be noted that for their thinking activity, the citizens of the country received shelter and food.

Distinguished citizens (most often these were Ministry employees and their associates, as well as those who possessed connections with the Minister of Thoughts himself) enjoyed privileges and material benefits inaccessible to the rest.

Some strained their "thinking apparatus" (as the head was called in this country) so diligently that they ended up in madhouses and spent the rest of their days there, isolated from society. However, they were not kept there long, being considered useless to the state, and were transferred to the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Secrets, which ensured that no one would ever see these people again. The curious who inquired about the fate of the missing were put on a watchlist. In response to requests, they were informed that it was a state secret.

But there were those in this country who thought differently, not submitting to the requirements and circulars of the Ministry of Thoughts. These people were called Dissenters. They were constantly hunted by employees of the Ministry of Secrets, who had the secret right to read citizens' thoughts and track down potential dissenters.

The Dissenters knew and understood that the system of thinking activity served only as a cover for terrible things happening behind the scenes. They knew the Truth—the very one hidden by the employees of the two Ministries. This Truth was kept as the greatest state secret in the archives of the Ministry of Secrets. Anyone who tried to learn it was punished, and these people vanished without a trace. Those who managed to avoid punishment joined the ranks of the Army of Dissenters. They also vanished, but not as a result of repressions—they went underground.

Curiously, no one had ever seen the Minister of Thoughts, knew what he looked like, or what plans he was making. This was the greatest state secret, hidden in the corridors, offices, and torture chambers of the Ministry of Secrets.

From time to time, the Army of Dissenters made sorties and attacked the bases of the Ministry of Secrets, where the creators of "unapproved thoughts" and Dissenters were held, tortured, and then destroyed by the Minister's order. By the way, no one had ever seen the Minister of Secrets either.

To prevent Ministry employees from reading their thoughts, the Dissenters wore special helmets.

The goal of their struggle against the System was the disclosure and publication of the main state secret: who actually rules the country.

One day, having carefully planned a military operation, despite significant losses, fighters of the Army of Dissenters managed to break through the defenses of both Ministries. These ministries occupied vast territories and were connected by bridges and underground corridors. Breaking through the rings of security that surrounded the citadel of power, a handful of fighters from the Army of Dissenters found themselves in the very Holy of Holies—the chancellery of the Minister of Thoughts. Fearing that they might be exposed here, they did not remove their helmets.

Opening the door to the chancellery, one of the fighters stumbled and nearly fell—ahead yawned a vast abyss in which Thoughts endlessly circled: of different colors, smells, shapes, and sizes. This was the Bank of Thoughts.

Analyzing what they saw, the Dissenters understood what they had sacrificed the lives of many of their comrades-in-arms for: the Ministers did not exist. Power in the country was exercised solely by Ministry officials. All the best efforts and thoughts of the nation, its dreams and ideas—all this had become the property of an army of bureaucrats.

There were thoughts of all citizens—children and adults, the righteous and informers, the insane, the living and the dead. The thoughts were countless.

The first thought that came to the minds of the Dissenters upon seeing the Bank was the desire to release all thoughts to freedom. But they immediately realized that while the battle continued, releasing all kind and constructive thoughts was risky—after all, Ministry employees could destroy the Bank of Thoughts at any moment.

Nevertheless, the fighters understood that it was necessary to convey their thoughts to the people, otherwise the uprising could choke.

In search of a solution, they stumbled upon a massive safe that seemed important to them. After trying to crack it for a long time while simultaneously fighting off attacks from Ministry of Thoughts employees, they finally opened it. Behind seven seals inside, they found a capsule with the inscription: "Top Secret. Thoughts of Dissenters." The capsule stored the thoughts most dangerous to the authorities—the thoughts of perished and tortured Dissenters. This was a weapon of incredible power. The fighters shattered the capsule and threw open the window of the chancellery. The thoughts burst out to freedom, filling the entire space and penetrating every home.

People rushed to the square in front of the two Ministries. Devices for reading thoughts, as well as the heads of Ministry of Secrets employees wearing these devices, could not withstand the flow of information and began to explode. Those who managed to remove the devices avoided the fate of their colleagues.

The battles ceased. There was no longer a need to hide. The underground fighters came out onto the streets. Dissent triumphed and became the norm in this unusual society.

Immediately, all thoughts stored there were released from the Bank. No one was forced to think in accordance with rigid requirements anymore. The circulars were gathered and burned on the country's main square, renamed the Square of Freedom of Thoughts.

There was no longer a need to inform. No one took away other people's thoughts for profit anymore. There was no need to hide one's thoughts from officials of the Ministry of Secrets, since there were no Secrets left, which meant—no Ministry either. No one vanished anymore—neither by their own wish nor by someone else's order.

Now all Thoughts became the property of all citizens of this unusual country.

Does it not seem familiar to you?

The original in Russian was published on May 30, 2016.

Legends of the Waning Lighthouse

— Did you order a miracle?

She seemed to want to confirm she had the right number, or perhaps that I hadn't changed my mind. Although only 5 minutes had passed since I visited the "Come to Us - for Miracles" website.

— You react quickly, — I replied. — In this day and age, that's a miracle in itself.

The girl relaxed and even smiled. — And how did you find out about us? We only launched this service on our website yesterday.

— A friend recommended you. He was at your presentation, got a discount card for advising three friends to you. I'm one of them. I received your text message and followed the link to the site. Do you need my personal data?

— I already have it; I'll just check if we have everything correct. Tom Green, 35, from New Haven. Not married.

— That's all correct, — I confirmed.

— Have you familiarized yourself with the pricing? — my conversationalist asked in a friendly manner.

— Yes, thank you. The price is fine with me. And what is your name?

— Veronica, — the girl replied with a sweet smile.

— You know, — I replied, — it's already a miracle that you and I are speaking.

Veronica fell silent for a moment, and Tom heard her let out a soft sigh. It seemed his words had broken her professional demeanor.

— Tom... — her voice no longer sounded so official; warm notes had appeared in it. — You are very kind. But I still must complete the order. Otherwise, our system won't launch... well, the process itself.

— Of course, sorry, — Tom said hastily, afraid the conversation would now end. — I'm ready.

— So, — Veronica had apparently returned to her monitor. — Order number 884-B. Category: "Everyday Miracles." Request: "To find what I have lost, but I don't know what it is." Correct?

Tom was slightly embarrassed. — Yes. It probably sounds strange? I was just... I was sitting at work, looking out the window, and I felt like I was missing something. Something important, but I couldn't remember what. And then your text arrived. I decided it was a sign.

— That is the best order formulation we've had all week, — Veronica answered seriously. — Usually, they ask to "win the lottery" or "get an ex back." Boring. Your request is a challenge for our creative department.

— You have a creative department? — Tom chuckled.

— Of course! — she laughed. — Miracles aren't generated by algorithms, Tom. They require an individual approach. And so, the order is activated.

— And what now? Should I expect a courier with a package?

— We work more elegantly. The miracle will be integrated into your reality within forty-eight hours. The main thing is to be open. Don't look for it specifically, but don't miss it either. It might not be what you expect.

— Alright. Thank you, Veronica.

— Thank you for your order, Tom. Have a good day.

— And you...

She hung up.

Tom lowered the phone and stared at it for a few seconds. The silence of the apartment seemed deafening. He had expected anything — skepticism, disappointment, the feeling of being "had." But instead, he felt a strange excitement. And more than anything in the world, he wanted to hear her voice again.

He spent the rest of the day in a fog. The next day he went to work (he was a restorer in a small gallery), but everything fell from his hands. He wasn't looking for a miracle. He was looking for an excuse to call her again. But what? "Hello, my miracle hasn't arrived yet?"

In the evening, he was returning home in a light rain. Evenings in New Haven were often damp and dreary. He stopped at the window of an old bookstore he hadn't entered in years. Just to wait out the rain.

Inside, it smelled of dust and old wood. An elderly owner dozed behind the counter. Tom wandered aimlessly between the shelves until he stumbled upon the poetry section. And there, on the bottom shelf, he saw it. A thin book in a faded blue cover. "Legends of the Waning Lighthouse."

He flushed with heat.

It was the book his grandfather had read to him as a child. He had completely forgotten about it. The book had been lost long ago during moves. He was sure it was no longer in print. Tom carefully picked up the volume. On the first page, someone's neat handwriting had inscribed: "To him who seeks the light."

His heart was pounding. Was this it? "To find what I have lost"? Tom bought the book and ran out into the street, no longer noticing the rain.

Once home, without even taking off his coat, he found the number for "Come to Us - for Miracles."

— Support service, Veronica speaking.

— Veronica! It's Tom. Tom Green.

— Tom? — surprise sounded in her voice. — Did something happen? Did the miracle not work?

— It... it worked! — he exhaled. — I found the book. The book from my childhood. I didn't even know I was looking for it. How did you do it?

There was silence on the other end of the line.

— A book? — Veronica finally asked, and there was... confusion in her voice.

— "Legends of the Waning Lighthouse"! With a dedicatory inscription! — he reported joyfully.

— Tom... — Veronica spoke slowly. — Your order hasn't even gone into processing yet. It's in the queue for tomorrow morning.

Tom froze.

— How... how has it not? But the book...

— It wasn't us, — Veronica said softly. — It seems that was... you know, a free miracle. From the Universe. It happens when a person starts to be "open." You attracted it yourself.

Tom sat down on a chair in the hallway. He wasn't disappointed. He was stunned.

— So, — he uttered, — my real miracle... is still to come?

— It seems so, — Veronica confirmed.

— Veronica, — Tom said, suddenly making a decision. — Cancel the order.

— What? But why?

— Because I think I've realized what I actually lost. Not a book. But this feeling... of anticipation. And something else.

— And what is that? — her voice became quiet, almost a whisper. — Courage, — said Tom.

— Veronica, can I use my order not for "finding what was lost," but for... a "meeting"?

— A "meeting"? That's also a popular category. Who do you want to meet?

— You, — said Tom. — I don't know what you look like, but for some reason, I'm sure this is the most important miracle I need.

Veronica fell silent again. This time the pause was so long that Tom feared she had hung up.

— Tom, — she finally said, and laughter trembled in her voice, — this... this is strictly against company rules.

— But you yourself said that miracles require a creative approach, — he parried. — And I am your "golden" client.

—...Alright, — she gave in. — But this won't be an official order. This will be a personal initiative.

— I agree!

— The "Old Owl" cafe on Church Street. In an hour.

— I'll be there. Veronica?

— Yes?

— Thank you. That really was a quick reaction.

— In this day and age, — she picked up with a smile, — that is a miracle in itself. 

The "Old Owl" cafe turned out to be exactly as Tom had imagined it: dark wood, lamps with shades, a smell of cinnamon, and quiet, barely perceptible jazz music. He sat at a table by the window, placing "Legends of the Waning Lighthouse" beside him.

Tom was nervous. What would he say? "Hi, I'm that strange client with the order-for-I-don't-know-what"?

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Every woman who entered the cafe made his heart jump. But they all walked past. He was already beginning to think it had just been a polite refusal when the bell above the door tinkled again.

She entered, shaking raindrops from her umbrella. She was... ordinary. Not a model, not a sorceress from a fairytale. Dark hair gathered in a messy bun, attentive brown eyes that were now anxiously scanning the room. She didn't look like the voice on the phone. The voice had seemed older, more confident.

She noticed him and the book on the table, smiled uncertainly, and approached.

— Tom?

— Veronica?

They stared at each other.

— You... — Tom began.

— I... — she began at the same time. They laughed. The awkwardness instantly vanished.

— Sorry, — she said, sitting opposite him. — I thought you'd be... older. Your voice on the phone is so... authoritative.

— And I pictured you... I don't know. In robes? — he joked. — Thank you for agreeing to this. I know this is probably against the rules.

— This is completely out of line, — Veronica laughed. — If my supervisor finds out, I'll be transferred to the "Lost Socks" department. And that's deadly dull.

They ordered coffee. The conversation flowed on its own — about the book, about Veronica's strange job (she called it "logistics of the intangible"), about the restoration work Tom did. And the more they talked, the stranger things became around them.

First, Tom noticed that the withered rose in the vase on their table suddenly lifted its head and bloomed a little fuller.

Then Veronica blinked and looked at her cup.

— Strange, — she murmured. — I asked for a latte with no sugar. But it's sweet. Perfectly sweet.

— And my "Americano"... — Tom took a sip. — It seems to have notes of... nut? Though I just ordered a regular one.

They looked at each other.

— Is your company playing tricks? — Tom asked with a smile.

— No, — Veronica shook her head, her eyes widening. — Our "creative department" only works on prepayment. This is... something else.

They fell silent, listening. The jazz melody playing in the background suddenly faltered and then flowed more clearly, as if it were being played live right behind them, even though there was no piano or musicians in the cafe.

— Okay, — Tom said, lowering his voice. — This is strange. But it's nice.

— Very, — Veronica agreed.

They talked for another hour. It turned out they both adored old lighthouses. It turned out they both had dreamed of finding a lost city as children. It turned out they both felt as if they had been waiting their whole lives for something they couldn't quite name.

— Amazing, — said Tom. — I feel like... I've known you before.

— I have the same feeling, — Veronica whispered. — Tom... remember your order? "To find what I have lost, but I don't know what it is."

— Yes. And I thought it was the book.

— And then you decided it was me, — she smiled.

— And now... — he faltered.

— And now, — she said softly, — I think we've both found something.

They left the cafe. The rain had stopped. The street was empty and bathed in a strange, pearlescent light, though the sun had set long ago. The streetlights burned unusually bright.

— Thank you for the evening, Veronica, — Tom said, unwilling to let go of her hand, which he had taken to help her down the step.

— Thank you, Tom. It was... magical.

She looked at him, then at the book in his hand.

— May I? — she took the volume of "Legends of the Waning Lighthouse." She opened the first page.

The inscription he had seen that afternoon — "To him who seeks the light" — had vanished. In its place, in the same neat handwriting, it now read:

"Tom, Veronica. Stop hiding. We found you. Come back. Order 884-B is closed. — The Creative Department."

Tom stared at Veronica, stunned. She didn't look surprised. She looked as if she had remembered something.

— So that's what we lost, — she whispered, looking not at Tom, but somewhere through him.

— What? — he asked, feeling a chill run down his spine.

— Our memory, Tom.

She raised her free hand, and the air next to her rippled, as if from heat. She was not a call center operator. And he was not a restorer. Those were just roles they had invented for themselves, to hide.

— They found us after all, — she said with a hint of annoyance, but her eyes were laughing. — Our game of "being ordinary" is over.

— Who are "they"? — Tom desperately tried to hold on to his slipping reality. "New Haven," the gallery, his apartment... it all suddenly seemed like a stage set.

— The ones we ran from, — Veronica shrugged, and at that moment her appearance began to change. Her simple jacket and jeans flowed like watercolor, replaced by a garment of shimmering light. 

— You were always bad at hide-and-seek, my love.

She stepped toward him and touched his forehead with her fingers. And then Tom Green remembered everything.

He remembered his real home among the stars, the war they had lost, and the desperate escape to this quiet, "analog" world where their magic didn't resonate so strongly. He remembered how they themselves had divided their memories and powers, hiding them in "miracles" for others, so their enemies wouldn't find them.

The "Come to Us - for Miracles" website was their own creation, their anchor. And the book... the book was the key he had left for himself.

— Veronica... — he breathed, recognizing her. He saw her truly now. — So... none of this was in vain.

— Of course not, — she took his hand. — We had a nice rest. But it's time to go home. I believe a rematch awaits us.

Veronica snapped her fingers. The streetlights on Church Street burst simultaneously, showering the asphalt with sparks, and in the ensuing darkness, the only light came from two figures dissolving into a pillar of pearlescent light, ascending into the rainless New Haven sky.

Below, on the wet pavement, only a small discount card remained, bearing the inscription: "Come to Us - for Miracles."