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<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
The words made my stomach twist: \u201cSusie\u2026\u201d \u201c\u2026is that you, sweetie?\u201d
\nThe phone slipped from my sweaty palm, clattering against the hardwood floor. I couldn\u2019t breathe. The room seemed to spin, the shadows of the hallway stretching and warping around me.<\/p>\n
The voice crackling from the dropped receiver wasn\u2019t a stranger\u2019s, and it certainly wasn\u2019t a prankster\u2019s. It was Mark\u2019s. My husband. The man I had buried eighteen years ago, just weeks after bringing our baby girl home from the hospital.<\/p>\n
I dropped to my knees and snatched the receiver, pressing it hard against my ear. \u201cWho is this?\u201d I hissed, my voice trembling with a terrifying mixture of rage and hope. \u201cWho is playing this sick joke?!\u201d<\/p>\n
There was a heavy pause, followed by a digital distortion, a soft click, and then the rhythmic hum of a dial tone.
\nMy heart hammered against my ribs. I practically ran up the stairs to Susie\u2019s room, throwing the door open without knocking. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her laptop glowing in the dark, tears streaming quietly down her cheeks.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho were you talking to down there?\u201d I demanded, my chest heaving. \u201cSusie, I dialed the number back. I heard\u2026 I heard your father\u2019s voice.\u201d<\/p>\n
Susie flinched, snapping her laptop shut. She looked terrified, pulling her knees to her chest. \u201cMom, please don\u2019t be mad. I can explain.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cExplain how a dead man is calling our landline?\u201d I yelled, the shock overriding my maternal instincts.
\n\u201cHe\u2019s not calling us, Mom! I\u2019m calling him!\u201d she cried out, her voice breaking. She scrambled off the bed and reached into her desk drawer, pulling out a small, dusty plastic box. I recognized it immediately. It was the shoebox of Mark\u2019s old mini-DV cassette tapes\u2014recordings he had made while I was pregnant, talking to my belly, imagining our future. I hadn\u2019t been able to look at them in a decade.<\/p>\n
\u201cI found a company online,\u201d Susie whispered, wiping her eyes. \u201cAn AI lab that specializes in grief therapy. You feed them audio samples, and their algorithm builds a conversational voice model. I digitized Dad\u2019s tapes last month and sent them in. They gave me a private number to call.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at her, the anger instantly vaporizing into a profound, suffocating sorrow. \u201cAn AI?\u201d I breathed.<\/p>\n
\u201cI just wanted to know what it felt like,\u201d she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. \u201cEvery girl at school complains about their dads, or hugs them after graduation, or gets yelled at by them for missing curfew. I have nothing. Just pictures of a guy I don\u2019t remember. The AI\u2026 it asks me about my day, Mom. It tells me it\u2019s proud of me. It sounds exactly like him.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt my legs give way, and I sank onto the edge of her bed. The ghost haunting our house wasn\u2019t a spirit; it was a desperate, digitized echo born from my daughter\u2019s broken heart.<\/p>\n
I reached out and pulled her into my arms. She collapsed against my chest, weeping with the kind of primal grief I hadn\u2019t heard since the day of Mark\u2019s funeral. I held her tight, rocking her back and forth in the dimly lit room.
\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she choked out. \u201cI know it\u2019s fake. I know it\u2019s not really him. But for five minutes a night\u2026 I had a dad.\u201d<\/p>\n
I rested my chin on the top of her head, tears finally spilling hot down my own cheeks. I looked at the closed laptop, thinking about the warm, gravelly voice I had just heard on the line\u2014a voice I had spent eighteen years trying to remember, and eighteen years trying to forget.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to be sorry, Susie,\u201d I whispered, squeezing her tighter. \u201cTomorrow night\u2026 do you think maybe I could talk to him, too?\u201d<\/p>\n
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