Hank’s world had shattered the night he lost Cole. It was a decision that haunted him, a choice he replayed endlessly in his mind: letting his eight-year-old son go to a friend’s sleepover. If only he hadn’t nodded absently that evening, distracted by work emails, trusting the world to be kind. If only he had driven Cole himself instead of letting the boy’s friend’s mother pick him up. If only he had said no. Cole would still be here—laughing, leaving toy cars scattered across the living room, his small voice calling out for one more bedtime story. But that night, a drunk driver had torn through their lives, and Cole was gone. Two years had passed since the accident, yet the grief clung to Hank like a shadow, heavy and unrelenting. He still went to his job at the Police station, but his work was detective now—cases being resolved without attention, meetings endured in silence. Colleagues whispered about his hollow eyes, the way he seemed to drift through days like a ghost.

Hank’s sister, Clara, couldn’t bear to watch him unravel. She tried to help, offering gentle words, cooking him meals he barely touched, and inviting him to family gatherings he avoided. She believed in healing, in time mending wounds, but Hank’s pain seemed bottomless. One day, Clara arrived at his small, cluttered apartment with a gift she thought might pull him from the abyss. It was a sleek, heavy box, its surface embossed with the logo of Cyberlife. “It’s not a replacement,” she said softly, her eyes pleading for him to understand. “It’s a chance to feel something again.” Inside was a limited-edition Android child, a marvel of engineering designed to mimic a real child’s warmth, curiosity, and companionship. Its creators promised it could learn, adapt, and form bonds, offering solace to those who had lost too much.

Hank’s reaction was visceral. The sight of the box—the implication of it—ignited a fury he hadn’t felt in months. “You think this… this thing can fix me?” he shouted, his voice cracking. He grabbed the box and hurled it to the floor, the thud echoing in the silent apartment. Clara flinched but said nothing, her eyes brimming with tears as she left. Hank dragged the box to the hall closet, shoving it behind old coats and forgotten boxes of Cole’s toys. He slammed the door shut, vowing never to open it. The Android was an insult, a mockery of his son’s memory. He would rather live with the pain than pretend a machine could fill the void.

Months passed, and the closet became a graveyard of things Hank couldn’t face. Cole’s favorite blanket, a half-finished model rocket they’d been building together, and that damned box, buried under layers of neglect. Hank’s life settled into a gray routine: work, microwave dinners, and sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, where memories of Cole played like a cruel film reel. He avoided the closet, avoided anything that might stir the ache. But one chilly evening, while rummaging for a pair of gloves, his hand brushed against the box. It shifted, and something inside clicked. A faint blue glow seeped through the cardboard seams, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. Hank froze, his breath catching. He told himself to walk away, to ignore it, but the light seemed to beckon, persistent and alive.

He knelt, his hands trembling as he pulled the box free. Dust coated its surface, a testament to his refusal to face it. The glow came from a small LED on the Android’s casing, visible through a tear in the packaging. Hank’s first instinct was to shove it back, to bury it deeper. But something stopped him—a memory of Cole’s wide-eyed wonder at anything mechanical, his endless questions about how things worked. Hank had been an cop because of moments like those, teaching his son to see the world as a puzzle to solve. What was this machine, really? A soulless imitation, or something more? His fingers lingered on the box, torn between anger and a flicker of curiosity. For the first time in years, Hank felt something stir—a pull toward the unknown, toward the possibility of feeling again.