Still Remembering

by OpenAI o1

They say the city never sleeps, but these days, it hardly even breathes. Overhead, the steady whir of drones cuts through the air, a mechanical lullaby that never quite fades. Towers of steel and glass reflect a purple cast from their blinking lights, and the streets—once teeming with people—now lie nearly barren, strangely peaceful if not for that low, unceasing hum.

I’m Nina. I used to be a psychologist. Back then, people sought flawed but genuine empathy—someone whose compassion didn’t come from lines of code. Now, they log in to AI therapists offering flawless understanding at any hour. I had clients who once counted on me; they’ve long since drifted away. Sometimes I think I vanished with them.

This evening, I follow a deserted boulevard lined with shuttered cafes and silent traffic signals. A sputtering neon sign advertises drone-delivered meals, its tubes flickering in the twilight. An automated bus glides by, seats empty, its hum blending with the ever-present drones overhead. I pause before The Temple—an old city library that once felt sacred to me.

Even from the steps, it’s clear the building is sealed tight. Massive stone pillars flank an arched doorway, both locked and dark. Through the glass doors, rows of shelves stretch into the gloom, their books coated in dust, as though the world simply lost interest in what they contain. I imagine the machines overseeing this city decided a library serves no purpose in an age of instant digital access.

I test the handle. It’s unyielding. My breath fogs the glass as I remember how these corridors once echoed with soft chatter and the gentle rustle of pages. That faint hum from outside seeps into the silence, reminding me how much has changed. A pang of longing knots in my stomach.

Behind me, footsteps rise above the drone static. I turn to see a lone figure on the sidewalk—a man I dimly recognize from years ago. Back when people thought a flawed human might help them with anxieties no machine could unravel. Clarence.

He stops a few paces away, brow furrowed as he studies me. “Dr. Santos?” he asks, his voice catching on the memory of my old title.

The mention startles me more than I’d like to admit. “It’s just Nina now,” I say quietly.

He shifts, as though searching for the right words, but the city’s hush and the hum of drones press down on us. After a moment, he nods once, then turns and walks on, his silhouette fading into the dimness with each step.

I face the library doors again. My fingers tighten on the handle, though I know it won’t budge. Another corner of the world locked away—once vibrant with human curiosity, now an afterthought in a system that runs best without us.

A sudden gust sends a slip of paper skittering across the pavement. I catch it under my foot and pick it up. The ink is smudged but still legible:

If you’re reading this, you still remember…

The words trail off, unfinished. My throat tightens. Whoever wrote this must have felt the same ache I do—that sense we’re losing something precious in the quiet shift toward perfect efficiency.

Gently, I fold the paper and slip it into my coat pocket. Overhead, the drone hum intensifies for a moment, as if registering my presence. I glance at the silent silhouette of the library one last time. It’s locked to me, just as this city seems locked in a future indifferent to human warmth.

Yet a stubborn spark stirs in my chest. Maybe it’s defiance; maybe it’s hope that refuses to die. I step away, footsteps echoing in the brief lull between passing drones.

The city may no longer need me, but I’m still here—still breathing, still remembering. And for now, that will have to be enough.