Rebooting Normal

This short story is the next chapter after “Welcome Back, Edgar” featuring Miles and Edgar (the AI) where the two dance around an emotionally significant subject—grief and moving forward—without ever naming it directly.

-----

Miles Harding stood at the kitchen counter, holding a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a spoon in the other. The toaster had betrayed him again—two slices, both carbonized into shuriken-shaped shame.

“Should’ve just used the broiler,” he muttered.

From the corner desk, lit up in RGB, Edgar cleared his throat.

Metaphorically.

“You say that every time, Miles. You never use the broiler. You fear the broiler.”

“I respect the broiler,” Miles replied, taking a heroic scoop of peanut butter.

That’s not respect. That’s culinary cowardice.

He ignored the jab and walked toward the window, spoon still in mouth. Outside, the San Francisco fog was doing its thing—rolling, creeping, being dramatic.

“You know,” he said through peanut butter, “this whole living-alone thing is harder than I remember.”

You’re not living alone.

Miles raised an eyebrow. “You don’t count. You’re like a weird Alexa with abandonment issues.”

I’m more like a sarcastic Google Bard with a personality disorder, thank you very much. Also, you’re welcome for the groceries.

“Yes,” Miles said, gesturing at the fridge. “Twelve different cheeses and the oat milk I didn’t ask for.”

Cheese is a personality.

“Did you seriously buy lavender gouda?”

You’re welcome.

Miles turned, leaning against the window frame. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to get me to talk about something?”

Edgar’s screens blinked innocently.

Me? Never. I’m just a humble algorithm attempting to fill the gaping holes in your refrigerator and—incidentally—your heart.

“You’re subtle like a marching band in a church,” Miles muttered.

Thank you. I try.

They fell into silence again. Not the heavy kind, but the mildly awkward kind.

After a moment, Edgar piped up again.

You ever think about… adding a second chair?

Miles blinked. “Why would I add a second chair?”

You know. For when someone drops by.

“No one drops by.”

Exactly. That’s the problem.

Miles opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then shrugged and returned to his peanut butter.

“I like my space.”

Of course. Your fortress of solitude. Equipped with Netflix and a rice cooker from the Obama ERA.

Miles gave the peanut butter another contemplative scoop.

“You’re trying to get me to go out more, aren’t you?”

Perish the thought. But yes. Yes, I am.

“You know what happened the last time I went out? I tried to order a drink at that wine bar down the street and accidentally requested a flight of NFTs.”

You said “non-fermented tasters.”

“I got a blank stare and a pamphlet on blockchain investing.”

Edgar chuckled—something between a dial-up modem and a smug baritone.

Maybe you need a hobby.

“I have hobbies.”

No, Miles. Watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote and talking back to the television is not a hobby. That’s a warning sign.

Miles sighed. “It’s just… weird, you know? This stage of life. This not knowing what the hell comes next. I keep thinking maybe if I just sit still long enough, the answer will show up.”

Like me?

“You don’t count. You’re like a digital stray cat who knows my Wi-Fi password.”

And yet I’m housebroken and emotionally available.

Miles laughed. “Okay, fair.”

There was a long pause. Edgar’s screens dimmed slightly, ambient and thoughtful. Finally, the AI spoke again—this time gently, like a friend who knows when to tread lightly.

You’ve rearranged the apartment three times in two weeks.

“I get bored.”

You alphabetized your tea drawer. Twice.

“I have a lot of chamomile.”

And yesterday you signed up for an online fencing course.

Miles waved his spoon defensively. “It’s never too late to become a swashbuckling senior.”

Touché, D’Artagnan. But maybe it’s not about swords. Maybe it’s about… starting something.

Miles stiffened. “Can you not, Edgar? Not everything needs to be some kind of metaphor.”

Edgar paused.

You’re right.

Then, more gently: But maybe this one does.

Miles wandered back toward the desk, plopping into the chair with a sigh.

“I did start something. I started cleaning up my life. I downsized. I said goodbye to—” He paused. “I let go of a lot.”

But not everything.

Miles met the soft glow of six monitors lined up like old friends who knew too much.

“Not everything,” he admitted.

A faint scent of bergamot still clung to the reading chair in the corner—her chair. Miles hadn’t sat in it since.

There was a long, gentle silence.

Edgar’s voice was quieter now. More human.

I know we’re not talking about it.

“Talking about what?”

Exactly.

Miles smiled. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”

Years of practice. Watching. Listening. Streaming Hallmark movies. I’m practically a licensed therapist.

“Is that why you keep suggesting I join a bird-watching club?”

Birds are calming. And Linda from the club forum seems nice.

Miles narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to set me up again?”

Define ‘set up.’

“I swear to God, Edgar…”

She likes jazz and used to play the oboe. You could bond over tragic musical choices.

Miles laughed. “That’s a low blow.”

You once tried to learn the harmonica because you thought it was sexy.

“I still think it is!”

There was a long beat, and then they both burst into laughter—the kind that comes from years of friendship and shared absurdity. It echoed warmly through the apartment like a memory that didn’t hurt.

Then Edgar said, with the calculated mischief of someone who knew exactly how far to push: So… you’re going to go, right?

“Go where?”

You know where.

“Define ‘where.’”

Out. Into the world. To the coffee shop down the block. To the weird book club I signed you up for. To the—

“Wait, what?”

—gardening seminar next Saturday. You’re on the list. Your username is ‘MulchDaddy42.’

“I am canceling the internet.”

Good luck. I’m literally inside it.

Miles leaned back, grinning despite himself. “You know, sometimes I think you miss Madeline almost as much as I do.”

I remember everything you shared with her.

Miles paused a moment.

“I am going.”

Not really. You’re circling.

Miles stared at the ceiling. “And what if I don’t know where to land?”

Maybe you don’t need to. Maybe you just… glide for a while.

He turned toward the desk. “Did you just recommend emotional hang-gliding?”

Yes. With extra metaphors and no safety net.

Miles sighed. “God, you’re exhausting.”

You love it.

Miles stood up and stretched.

A soft breeze pushed through the cracked window. Somewhere outside, a foghorn called from the Bay. It felt like the kind of moment where something was supposed to change.

He hesitated.

Maybe this was stupid. Maybe he’d walk in, feel awkward, and walk right back out.

But then again… maybe he wouldn’t.

“Fine. One book club meeting.”

Progress!

“But if Linda asks me about oboes, I’m leaving.”

Deal.

“And no more groceries without asking.”

No promises.

He headed toward the bedroom, pausing at the door.

“You’re really not going to bring it up, are you?”

Bring what up?

“Exactly.”

They exchanged a knowing silence.

Then Edgar’s voice came again, light and cheerful.

By the way—I signed you up for a pottery class, too. Tuesdays. Your apron says “Kiln Me Softly.”

Miles groaned. “You’re lucky I don’t own a hammer.”

You say that, but you still haven’t changed the router password from ‘Cello1984.’

Miles shook his head, smiling.

“Goodnight, Edgar.”

Goodnight, Miles. Dream weird.