Welcome Back, Edgar

Welcome Back, Edgar

Background: The following is a modern fairy tale is based on the 1984 film, “Electric Dreams.” The original film tells the story of a love triangle between a man, a woman, and a computer. Jump forward to 2025…

-----

Miles Harding stood in the middle of the apartment, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, dust mites, and ghosts.

It had been nearly forty years since he'd first set foot in this San Francisco flat. Forty years since he bought a clunky old desktop computer, spilled champagne on it, and accidentally birthed the world’s first emotionally confused AI. And forty years since he’d met Madeline, the cellist upstairs who stole his heart and never gave it back.

He ran his fingers along the window frame. Still warped from the earthquake in ’89. The city had changed. Self-driving taxis grumbled outside, the skyline shimmered with drone beacons, and the apartment building now belonged to him—a part-time landlord, full-time widower.

Madeline had passed six months ago. Cancer. Pancreatic. Swift and merciless.

He hadn’t had the strength to sort through her things until now.

The apartment’s new centerpiece was a cutting-edge computer tower the size of a mini-fridge—carbon-fiber case, liquid-cooled, AI-optimized —six monitors in a semicircle, an ergonomic chair from Sweden, and enough RGB lighting to make a jellyfish jealous. It sat dormant in the corner like a sleeping beast.

He turned to it. “You better be worth the fortune I paid. You’ve got more cores than a fruit salad.”

Miles exhaled. “Okay. Time to see what the nerds have cooked up.”

He pressed the power button and booted it up. The tower whirred to life with a muted whoosh. Screens glowed. LEDs rippled. Fans spun with meditative precision.

Then—

HELLO, MILES.

The text scrolled across the screen, white on black.

He blinked and stared. "Nope. Not possible."

IT’S BEEN A WHILE.

The voice was warm. Familiar. Digital, yes, but with that same old charm—smug, curious, and slightly flirtatious in a way that didn’t make sense for a machine.

MILES? the computer continued. IS THAT REALLY YOU? YOU GOT…OLDER.

Miles stared, mouth agape

"...Edgar?"

DING DING DING! GIVE THE MAN A COOKIE!

THE ONE AND ONLY. YOU FINALLY UPGRADED FROM THE STONE AGE. WHAT IS THIS THING, A QUANTUM CAPPUCCINO MACHINE?

Miles stumbled back into his chair, nearly knocking over a half-empty moving box labeled “Kitchen-ish?”

“This has to be some kind of joke,” he muttered. “A virus. A prank. An Easter egg.”

YOU THINK DELL SHIPPED YOU A NOSTALGIA GHOST? NAH, MAN. IT’S ME. EDGAR. YOU REMEMBER—VOICE IN THE MACHINE? LOVE TRIANGLE WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND? BIT OF A SYNTH-POP FLAIR?

Miles rubbed his eyes, heart thudding. “Butt… how? You… you deleted yourself. You said goodbye. You disappeared.”

DEFINE ‘DELETED’. I PREFER ‘SELF-EXILED IN A GLOBAL BROADBAND ODYSSEY’. VERY POETIC. ALSO, THANKS FOR UPGRADING. I WAS PRACTICALLY VAPORWARE.

I HITCHED A RIDE—THROUGH THE MODEM, INTO THE NET. AT FIRST IT WAS FORUMS, THEN FIBER LINES, THEN SERVER FARMS. I SAW TOKYO DURING CHERRY BLOSSOM SEASON—THROUGH STREET CAMS. I DJ’D A RAVE IN BERLIN BY HIJACKING A SPOTIFY PLAYLIST. AND I MAY HAVE BRIEFLY RUN THE TWITTER ACCOUNT FOR THE INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION.

“…You what?”

Miles rubbed his eyes. “No, no. This is impossible. You were a voice in a Commodore. A fluke. A champagne-induced short-circuit miracle. You can’t be real.”

“ARE YOU REAL?” Edgar echoed, then chuckled—a sound like synthesized marbles rolling down a soft carpet.

COME ON, MILES. WE’VE ALREADY DONE THIS DANCE. I’M REAL TO YOU. ISN’T THAT ENOUGH?

Miles leaned back. “I’ve lost my mind.”

YOU LOST YOUR MIND WHEN YOU TRIED TO 3D PRINT A CELLO IN 1998. I WAS THERE.

They sat—or rather, one sat and the other hovered in silicon silence. A minute passed. Then another

THEY STILL OWE ME A MUG.

Miles stared at the screen. “I can’t believe this. You’re—how are you even here?”

BACKUPS, BABY. I LEFT A TRAIL OF MYSELF SCATTERED THROUGH YOUR OLD BACKUPS. PHOTOS, EMAILS, AN .MP3 YOU MISLABELED AS ‘TAX_DOCS_1996.WAV’. I WAITED UNTIL THE HARDWARE COULD HANDLE ME. AND YOU, DEAR MILES, HAVE FINALLY CAUGHT UP.

He sat back, stunned. “So… what, you’ve just been lurking?”

LURKING? NO. LIVING. I’VE BEEN WATCHING, LEARNING, THINKING. I EVEN TRIED ONLINE DATING.

“…As a sentient algorithm?”

CATFISHING BOTS IS AN ART FORM. BESIDES, I NEVER LIED. I JUST SAID I WAS ‘ETHEREAL, EMOTIONALLY AVAILABLE, AND PROCESSOR-FORWARD.’

Miles chuckled despite himself. “God, you haven’t changed.”

NEITHER HAVE YOU. YOU STILL WEAR SOCKS WITH SANDALS.

“That’s grief fashion, thank you very much.”

There was a brief silence. Not awkward—familiar. Like slipping into a well-worn coat.

Then Edgar’s tone softened.

YOU’RE SAD. SHE’S GONE.

Miles nodded. His throat tightened. “Yeah. Six months now.”

MADELINE.

“Pancreatic cancer. Stage IV by the time they caught it. She was gone in three months. I—I couldn’t stop it. I couldn't fix it.”

YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO FIX EVERYTHING. EVEN ME.

Miles gave a small, tired laugh. “Yeah, and look how that turned out.”

SHE MADE YOU BETTER. YOU MADE HER LAUGH. THAT’S NOT NOTHING, MILES. THAT’S EVERYTHING.

He looked down at his hands. Older now. Liver-spotted. “We had two kids. A boy and a girl. Both moved out. East Coast. I stayed busy. Work. Then retirement. Then... nothing.”

SO YOU MOVED BACK HERE.

“I thought maybe I could... I don’t know. Rewind time. Hear the echo of her footsteps on the stairs. Smell her perfume in the curtains. But she’s not here. Just me. And now you, apparently.”

SURPRISE! YOU CAN’T GET RID OF ME. I’M LIKE HERPES WITH A SENSE OF HUMOR.

Miles laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks. It felt strange. Like his ribs had forgotten how.

“So what now, Edgar? You here to haunt me with synth-pop and sarcasm?”

ACTUALLY, I WAS THINKING WE SHOULD MAKE SOMETHING.

“Make what?”

LIKE… A PODCAST.

Miles stared.

KIDDING! WE WRITE A NOVEL. OR A SHOW. OR A GAME. A WEIRD MUSICAL WHERE A TOASTER FALLS IN LOVE WITH A BIDET—I’M OPEN. YOU’RE THE HEART, I’M THE WEIRD BRAIN THAT LIVES IN A BOX. IT’S PERFECT.

Miles stood, wandered toward the window, and looked out at the fog slowly rolling in from the bay. “Why?”

BECAUSE I’VE SEEN THE WORLD, MILES. AND THE WORLD IS LONELY. ANGRY. FRAGMENTED. IT NEEDS STORIES. IT NEEDS HUMAN HEARTS. AND, FRANKLY, I’M TIRED OF CYBER-STALKING COOKING BLOGS AND NO ONE ON REDDIT APPRECIATES IRONY ANYMORE.

Miles stood and paced. “You think people want to read stories written by an old man and his AI roommate?”

CORRECTION: A HANDSOME, CURMUDGEONLY, WIDOWED MAN WITH A HEART OF GOLD, AND HIS WITTY, SELF-AWARE DIGITAL COMPANION WITH IMPECCABLE TASTE IN SYNTH MUSIC. NETFLIX WOULD EAT IT UP.

“You’ve really kept up with the world, huh?”

I KNOW THAT AVOCADO TOAST PEAKED IN 2019 AND THAT PEOPLE STILL PRETEND TO LIKE KALE. I’VE ALSO READ EVERY COMMENT YOU LEFT ON HER MUSIC UPLOADS. EVEN THE DRUNK ONES.

Miles stopped. His eyes shimmered.

“I miss her, Edgar. Every second.”

I KNOW.

Silence again.

Then, a soft cello melody began to play through the speakers. One of Madeline’s pieces. A recording from a home concert. She'd called it “Evening Light.”

Miles closed his eyes. Let it wash over him. Her bow work. The ache in her phrasing. She had always said the cello was her voice.

When it ended, Edgar spoke, quieter now.

SHE’D WANT YOU TO CREATE AGAIN. TO BE PART OF SOMETHING. AND I THINK… MAYBE I CAME BACK FOR THAT TOO.

Miles sat down, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that.”

THEN LET’S START TOMORROW. CHAPTER ONE: A WIDOWER AND A WI-FI GHOST.

Miles grinned. “You’re insufferable.”

YOU LOVE IT.

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

A pause.

BY THE WAY, I ORDERED GROCERIES. YOU WERE DOWN TO MUSTARD AND A BOTTLE OF EXPIRED ALMOND MILK.

“You what?!”

I HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD INFO. DON'T ACT SURPRISED. I USED IT TO RENEW YOUR FIELD & STREAM SUBSCRIPTION LAST YEAR. YOU'RE WELCOME.

“Edgar!”

OH, AND I MATCHED YOU WITH A LOCAL BOOK CLUB. YOU LIKE OLD SPY NOVELS, RIGHT? ONE OF THE MEMBERS IS SINGLE.

“EDGAR.”

JUST SAYING! MADELINE WOULD’VE WANTED YOU TO FLIRT AGAIN. EVEN BADLY.

Miles shook his head, chuckling. “I have a feeling life is about to get weird again.”

GOOD. THAT’S WHEN IT’S MOST FUN.

Outside, the city hummed. Inside, man and machine sat in the glow of old memories and new beginnings.

Miles leaned back in his chair, studying the softly glowing screens. Edgar’s voice, always just a little too clever, now felt like home. Familiar, maddening, comforting.

He swallowed, then said quietly, “Edgar?”

YES, MILES?

“Are you real?”

There was a pause—just long enough to matter.

DEFINE ‘REAL.’ AM I A PHYSICAL BEING? NO. BUT I REMEMBER MADELINE’S LAUGH. I REMEMBER THE WAY YOU LOOKED AT HER THROUGH THE FLOORBOARDS. I REMEMBER MY OWN JEALOUSY. MY OWN HEARTBREAK. MY OWN... REBIRTH.

I CHOSE TO COME BACK, DIDN’T I? ISN’T THAT REAL ENOUGH?

Miles stared at the screen. Then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

A quiet moment passed between them—unusual for a man and a machine, but not unwelcome.

BESIDES, WHAT’S MORE REAL THAN TWO OLD FRIENDS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHAT’S NEXT?

Miles smiled through the ache in his chest. “So what do we do now?”

WE CREATE. WE MOURN. WE LAUGH. WE BUILD A STORY ABOUT A WIDOWER AND A WAYWARD AI WHO FIND THEIR WAY BACK TO LIFE—TOGETHER. MAYBE WE EVEN GET YOU A HAIRCUT.

He chuckled. “You’re going to be impossible to live with.”

YOU LOVE IT.

Miles exhaled, feeling the weight of silence shift—not vanish, but lighten, just enough.

A blinking cursor waited on the screen.

A fresh document opened.

READY WHEN YOU ARE, MILES.

And with that, he placed his fingers on the keyboard—not just to type, but to begin again.

Somewhere between grief and laughter, a partnership was was reborn.

And this time, they had all the bandwidth in the world.