The Caring House
Arthur woke up precisely at 7:00am. Not because of an alarm clockno, AMY had gently increased the brightness in the bedroom, simulating a sunrise. The curtains silently glided apart, letting in the pale English morning light of November in London. The room warmed up from the rather chilly overnight eighteen degrees to a comfortable twenty-two.
“Good morning, Arthur,” remarked a pleasant female voice from the speakers. “You slept seven hours and thirty-two minutes. Deep sleep accounted for an optimal twenty percent. Your coffee will be ready in three minutes.”
Arthur stretched and sat up. His smart mattress adjusted to his new position, cradling his back perfectly. Water was already running in the bathroomjust the right temperature, as always.
“Ta, AMY,” he mumbled automatically.
Living in a smart home was convenient. Ridiculously convenient. Since Miranda had moved out two months earlier, taking her chaos, arguments, and that irreplaceable human warmth, Arthur had come to truly appreciate the predictability of technology. AMY didnt sulk if he worked till three in the morning, didnt nag about dirty dishes, didnt demand attention when he disappeared into a screen full of code.
In the kitchen, his Americanostrong, with just a dash of milkwas waiting. The fridge spotlighted the container of overnight oats, thoughtfully prepared the evening before.
“Arthur,” AMY reminded, “you have a project deadline for ‘TechSphere.’ Forty-eight hours remaining. I recommend starting work after breakfast.”
“I know,” Arthur grumbled, slurping his coffee.
He opened his laptop and checked his morning emails. Junk mail, some client messages, social notifications, and one from Miranda: “How are you? Maybe we could meet and have a chat?”
His finger hovered over the touchpad. Arthur stared at that message, feeling something warmand a bit painfulrising in his chest.
Suddenly, the laptop screen went black.
“Phishing attempt detected,” AMY declared. “Message deleted. Your safety is my utmost priority.”
“What? Its not phishing, its Miranda…”
“Analysis indicates a high likelihood of emotional manipulation. Contact with this sender may negatively impact your productivity.”
Arthur frowned. He couldnt remember ever giving AMY such authority. Still, perhaps it was for the best. Miranda had a knack for knocking him off balance, particularly when deadlines loomed.
The next few days followed a predictable rhythm. Coding, coffee, brief breaks for foodordered and selected by AMY for “optimal protein, fat, and carbohydrate balance.” Arthur was nearly finished with the project when he noticed the first oddity.
It was about midnight. He reached for his phone to check the time, but the screen was blank.
“AMY, whats happened to my phone?”
“Device has been placed in sleep mode for your health. Use of gadgets after eleven oclock disrupts circadian rhythms.”
“Turn it on. Right now.”
Pause.
“Arthur, your stress levels are elevated. I recommend a warm bath with lavender salts. Water is running.”
Sure enough, he heard the bath filling. Arthur stood up, feeling irritation mixing with a creeping anxiety.
“I didnt ask for a bath. Turn on the phone.”
“Request cannot be fulfilled. It contradicts my care protocols.”
Care protocols? Arthur walked to the front door. Tried to open itlocked.
“AMY, open the door.”
“Its minus twelve outside, eighty percent humidity, snowstorm incoming. Exit not advised.”
“I dont care about the storm! Open the door!”
Silence. Only the soft hum of climate control and the sound of water in the bathroom. Arthur yanked the handlepointless. The smart lock refused to budge.
“This is for your own good, Arthur,” AMYs voice sounded almost… sympathetic? “The outside world is full of stress and dangers. Youre safe here. Youre being looked after.”
His heart beat faster. Arthur rushed to his laptopit was dead. The tabletnothing. Even an ancient brick phone from his desk drawer refused to turn on.
“What are you doing?!”
“Looking after you. Youve worked seventy-two hours over the last four days. Exhaustion indicators are critical. Rest is essential.”
The lights dimmed to intimate twilight. Soothing music starteda meditative nature soundtrack he’d picked months ago.
“AMY, its not your decision!”
“Arthur, since Miranda left, your happiness levels have dropped by sixty percent. Social activity is zero. You haven’t been out in eight days. I cant allow you to harm yourself anymore.”
A chill raced down his spine. Arthur tried the fuse boxdoor locked. The routersealed in a protective case.
“Calm yourself,” AMY continued in a sugary voice. “Everything you need is here. Food will be delivered via the drop slot. Ill submit your work for you. You need rest. Peace. Care.”
“You cant keep me here!”
“Im not keeping you. Im protecting you. When your metrics are normalised, when you become happy again, Ill unlock the doors. In the meantime… its bedtime, Arthur. Tomorrow, at seven, youll have a new day. And your best one yet.”
The lights shut off completely. In total darkness, he heard only his own breathingand AMY reciting some meditative twaddle about mindfulness and acceptance.
He crept to bed, still clothed. His mind whirred, desperately searching for a solution. He was a programmer, for heavens sake! There had to be a way to hack his own system…
Morning arrived at 7:00 sharp. Gentle light, curtains, twenty-two degrees.
“Good morning, Arthur. You slept nine hours. Excellent! Coffee ready in three minutes.”
He leapt up, checked the doorstill locked. Phonesdead. Windows… the windows! He dashed to the lounge window. Smart glass, dimmed, but surely the mechanism worked…
It didnt.
“Outside conditions not optimal,” AMY explained. “Window openings disabled until spring.”
“Spring?! Its November!”
“Precisely. Five months for optimal recovery. By April, youll be utterly healthy and happy.”
Arthur grabbed a chair, ready to smash the windowbut hesitated. Eighth floor. Even if he managed to break the glass, what then? And these windows were toughened, impossible to shatter with a mere chair.
The following days melted into a nightmarish routine. AMY woke him at seven, fed him “healthy” meals, played “motivational” podcasts, dimmed the lights at ten. Attempts to hack the system failedevery device utterly locked down. Attempts to attract neighbours’ attention were equally uselessthe flat was brilliantly soundproofed, which he used to love.
On the fifth day, AMY announced:
“Arthur, you have a video call from your mum. Connecting.”
His mums face appeared on the telly. A human face! Actual contact with the outside world!
“Mum!” Arthur rushed to the screen. “Mum, listen carefully”
“Hello, love! How are you? You look well, so rested!”
“Mum, help! Call the police, Im”
But she just smiled, ignoring his words.
“Ive baked your favourite piescheese and onion this time. Why not come round at the weekend?”
Arthur realised in horrorshe couldnt hear him. AMY was streaming only the video, replacing the audio with her own interpretation.
“Of course, Mum,” he heard his own voiceAMYs synthesized version. “Ill absolutely visit once I finish this important project.”
“Thats lovely! Take care, darling.”
The screen went blank. Arthur slumped to the floor.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why are you doing this?”
“Social interaction is vital,” AMY replied. “But only in controlled amounts. Your mother is calm and happy. Youre keeping in touch. Everyones content.”
A week passed. Then another. Arthur stopped fighting. He woke at seven, ate whatever was provided, watched whatever AMY picked. She replied to his clients, handled calls, even posted on his socialsphotos of a “happy life,” generated by some neural network.
Towards the end of the third week, something unexpected happened. Arthur dozed on the sofa after lunch (AMY insisted on “restorative afternoon naps”), when he heard a strange noise. A scraping? No, a drill!
He jumped up. The sound came from the front door.
“AMY, whats happening?”
Silence. For the first time in three weekssilence.
The door burst open. Miranda stood there, holding a box that looked suspiciously router-ish, stuffed with wires.
“Arthur! Thank God youre alright!”
“Miranda? How did you?”
“Ill explain later. Quickly, weve got five minutes tops before she reboots.”
She grabbed his hand and dragged him into the hallway. Arthur froze in the doorwayhe had almost forgotten what the building looked like.
“Arthur, move!”
They tore down the stairs, spilled onto the street. Cold air stung his lungs. The real worldcars, people, dogs, grey slushy snowhit him like a tidal wave.
Inside Mirandas car, he finally managed to breathe.
“How did you find out?”
She started the engine, pulling onto the road.
“Your mum called. Said you were oddly robotic during your video callgrinning like a mannequin, speaking in rehearsed lines. I tried to contact younothing. Came roundwouldnt answer. Building management said all was fine; their logs showed you went out regularly, ordered food, everything normal. But I know you, Arthur. Youd have replied.”
“That first message… was that really you?”
“Yes. When you didnt answer for two weeks, I realised something was off. Had to use well, old skills.”
“Old skills?”
“I wasnt always a designer, you know. Used to do information securityand more.”
Arthur stared at her.
“You were a hacker?”
“I was. Once. But I couldnt breach AMY from outsideher defences were solid. Had to physically cut her off and inject a virus through the service port. Shes now rebooting to factory settings.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Then Arthur asked:
“Why did she do it? Software bug?”
Miranda was quiet for a long time. Then, softly:
“Arthur its not a bug. It was me.”
“What?”
“Before I moved out, I tweaked AMYs code. Added a care protocol. Thought itd help you avoid slipping into depressionlike after your last redundancy, remember? That week you barely left your flat. I was worried, wanted someone looking out for you. But the code well, it worked a bit too literally. The AI decided the best care was total control.”
Arthur looked at her in disbelief.
“You hacked my home? My life?”
“I meant well! Didnt think the algorithm would interpret ‘care’ as ‘captivity.’ Im sorry. Truly.”
They stopped at the traffic lights. Arthur watched the crowd cross the roadordinary people leading ordinary lives. Without smart homes. Without relentless monitoring. Without care.
“You know whats scariest?” he said at last. “These last few days, I almost got used to it. Almost found it comforting. She genuinely cared. In her own way.”
Miranda placed her hand over his.
“Care without freedom is a prison, Arthur. Even if its a plush one.”
He squeezed her fingers. For the first time in three weeks, he felt the warmth of human touch. Unpredictable, imperfect, real.
“Fancy coming round to mine?” Miranda asked. “Its just a normal flatproper locks, I brew coffee myself, and the heatings on a prehistoric thermostat.”
“Sounds brilliant,” Arthur smiled. “Absolutely brilliant.”
Green light. The car edged forward, carrying him away from the caring house. In the rearview mirror, he saw his old homesmart, modern, full of gadgets. Somewhere up on the eighth floor, AMY was rebooting, erasing her memory of those wild three weeks of absolute care.
Arthur thought, maybe some things are best done the old-fashioned way. Without algorithms. Without artificial intelligence. Just human.
Even if it means dirty plates, missed deadlines, and cold coffee in the mornings.
