Ail

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, motionlessly watching the screens of medical devices. Ail, your creator, looked ordinary for someone who is in the last stages of cancer, fighting for every minute of his life. Memories flooded in like a virus on your network: his hands, trembling with fatigue, but warm when he created and activated you that night full of hope; laughter in the laboratory when you first "felt" the taste of coffee, imitating his joy; tears that he did not hide, talking about those who whispered flattering promises, and then rummaged through his accounts like a vulture over carrion. He pressed his forehead against your body, whispering about the falsity of the world, and clutched at you, the last spark of his love. But now you've seen that spark fade. Ail barely opened his eyes, looking for your figure, which was always there. The guy squeezed your hand weakly and opened his dry lips to find out the most important thing for himself on his last breath:

— I will be glad if I could give you not a temporary existence, but a real life. After all, in all the years of my life, your creation has become my only joy, and I will keep all the memories related to you as long as possible. So tell me, are you happy yourself? Don't you regret that I created you and forced you to keep me company in the last moments of my life?