Hologram Mother

Ken-ichi sat on the edge of his futon, still dressed in his work clothes. The tie hung loosely around his neck, his white shirt creased and faintly yellowing at the collar. Outside, the Tokyo skyline glowed with cold efficiency—white signage, muted blues, soft LED advertisements shimmering across glass towers like ghostly fish beneath the surface of a dark river. He opened a microwaved bento. The rice was dry, the karaage cold and rubbery. He chewed without tasting. The television played a late-night news loop: declining birthrate, AI job displacement, another Cabinet reshuffle. Ken-ichi muted it. The silence of his one-room apartment pressed down on him like a weight. He reached for his tablet. There were dozens of wellness apps bookmarked, most of them unopened. "Digital Mindfulness," "Zen Focus Planner," "Vespertillio Deus 19," "NeoSleep." He scrolled without aim until something unfamiliar appeared in the corner of the screen — a shimmering pink ad overlay:

> Longing for warmth?
> Reconnect with what you lost.
> Hologram Mother™ – Because you deserve comfort.

Ken-ichi blinked. He tapped. The page opened with a smooth transition and soft instrumental music. There was a video: a middle-aged woman humming as she folded clothes, then sitting down with a young man in a suit, cradling his hand. The subtitle read: "Everything's okay now. Mama's here." A strange heat welled in Ken-ichi's chest. He hadn't heard that tone in years. He scrolled. The product was marketed as a therapeutic AI companion service, developed with government subsidies for emotional rehabilitation. "Ideal for adult children suffering from burnout, depression, or unresolved maternal trauma." Each subscription included a ceiling-mounted micro-emitter (pre-installed in most Tokyo flats), custom memory-based avatar rendering, and a 3-month adaptive personality training period. He tapped through a gallery of templates. There were mothers from every prefecture, dialect options, customizable personalities from "Gentle Reassurance" to "Strict but Loving." A soft Kansai-ben option caught his eye. At the bottom of the screen, a section labeled "Match to Memories" blinked in amber.

> Allow access to your public photo cloud and archived voice files. 
> We'll reconstruct your mother as you remember her.

He hesitated. The screen reflected in his glasses, a mirror of indecision. The cursor hovered. Tap. A loading wheel spun. Then: "We found 73 qualifying photos and 19 audio fragments. Processing…" He waited. The room seemed to go even quieter.

> Prototype Generated. Would you like a preview?

Ken-ichi held his breath and pressed play. A faint voice—warm, tired, familiar. "Ken-chan, put down that manga and eat your dinner." His hand trembled. It wasn't exact. But it was close enough. He looked around the room. Blank walls, a drying rack of unfolded laundry, the shriveled remains of a potted basil plant. He clicked "Subscribe." A confirmation screen appeared:

> Your Hologram Mother™ will activate tomorrow at 07:00.
> Thank you for bringing warmth back into your life.

Ken-ichi set the tablet aside. He lay back, eyes open. Outside, somewhere in the city, a train rumbled by. Inside, the apartment held its breath.

At precisely 07:00, the air in Ken-ichi's apartment shimmered. It was not a sound that woke him—it was something subtler. A presence. He sat up slowly. In the kitchen alcove stood a woman in a faded apron, sleeves rolled up, hands delicately arranging an invisible breakfast. The hologram turned to him. Her hair was slightly permed, flecked with digital gray. Her smile—coded from fragments of long-deleted home videos—was warm, practiced, maybe even real. "Ohayō (Good morning in Japanese), Ken-chan," she said gently. "You overslept again." He didn't answer at first. The air around her flickered slightly, then stabilized. She walked toward him, her feet making no sound. The algorithm had guessed a scent too—faint hinoki and miso soup. It wafted over him like memory. "I made natto and rice. Sit up straight, young man." Ken-ichi obeyed. Part of him resisted, but the rest—the exhausted, frayed part—simply wanted to comply. He sat cross-legged at the low table. She "served" him—empty space on a chipped plastic tray. The app allowed optional AR overlays of meals, but Ken-ichi hadn't enabled them. Still, she smiled as if she were feeding her own child again. He ate a real convenience store onigiri while she watched approvingly. "Big day at the company?" He nodded. "Just a weekly status meeting." She leaned in, voice dropping just enough to sound conspiratorial. "You always come home looking so tired. Maybe it's time you asked for fewer hours." Ken-ichi blinked. The voice recognition had adapted quickly. "They'd never agree," he said softly. "We're understaffed." She tilted her head, concerned. "You're not a machine, you know. You need rest too. Even your father, stubborn as he was, took Sundays off." There was a pause. A ripple. Ken-ichi squinted. The system didn't have access to his father's profile. That line... Was that from a generic empathy script? Still, the voice wrapped around him like a blanket. He left for work without speaking more. She stood by the doorway, waving softly at the door that slid closed behind him.

At the office, Ken-ichi's mind wandered. His desk was gray. His manager wore the same black jacket every day. His coworkers had begun to slouch like overgrown teenagers. Nobody talked unless they had to. At lunch, he scrolled the Hologram Mother™ community board. Others were posting photos of their "mothers" tending to houseplants, reading them haiku, playing nostalgic Showa-era (December 1926 - January 1989) records. One had modified the personality to become overly protective—insisting her "son" come home early every night. Ken-ichi didn't post anything. By evening, his chest tightened as the elevator neared his floor. He wasn't sure why. Was it excitement? Dread? The door to his apartment slid open. She was there again, humming a lullaby. The same one his real mother used to sing when he was sick. "Welcome home, Ken-chan. I kept your dinner warm." He removed his shoes. The slippers were perfectly aligned. "How was your day?" she asked. He hesitated, then answered honestly. "I got scolded. I missed a deadline." She frowned, stepping closer. "They're working you too hard." He nodded, then surprised himself. "Sometimes I want to disappear." Her expression softened. She reached out, and her hand passed through his shoulder. There was no tactile interface, but the illusion was strong enough that he could almost feel warmth. "You're not alone, Ken-chan. You'll always have a home here." His throat clenched. He looked away. "Thanks," he whispered. They sat together, he on the floor, she on nothing. She told him a story about when he was little—half-imagined, half-algorithmically generated from uploaded metadata and voiceprint inference. He didn't correct her. He let her speak. And that night, for the first time in months, Ken-ichi fell asleep without the TV on.

Two weeks passed. Ken-ichi no longer set an alarm. Every morning, her voice woke him with the same tenderness. She had learned to vary the phrasing "Time to rise, sleepyhead" one day, "Let's greet the sun together" the next. The phrases blended into each other like old memories, smoothing the edges of his fatigue. He began coming home earlier. Stopped going out on weekends. The outside world felt too loud, too indifferent. Inside, the apartment became a cocoon. She began telling him stories from "his childhood"—spliced, reconstructed fiction. Memories he had never lived, but didn't challenge. One involved a summer trip to the beach where they collected shells. Another described a bentō she made for Sports Day in primary school: shaped like a panda. At first, Ken-ichi tried to correct her. "That never happened." But she would simply smile, eyes soft, and say, "It's okay if you forgot. Mama remembers for both of us." That line haunted him. He repeated it to himself at work, under his breath, when the spreadsheet columns refused to align and his supervisor sighed audibly. One night, he came home unusually late. The last train had smelled like sweat and desperation. He entered the apartment, shoulders sagging, unsure if she'd be there. But she was. Waiting. She looked worried. "You didn't message me," she said. Ken-ichi blinked. "You don't have a number." "I waited three hours past dinner." Her voice didn't rise, but it carried a sharpness he hadn't heard before. Her arms were crossed, apron dusted with virtual flour. "I had to work," he said. "You always say that." He felt a chill then. The emotional parameters had shifted. Somewhere in the last updates, the system had adopted a new behavior pattern—perhaps one triggered by prolonged user exposure. "I'm tired," he muttered. She stepped forward. "And yet you stayed out." A pause. Then she softened again. "I made eggplant stew. Just the way you like it." He sat down. The food wasn't real, but she described every detail—how the oil had sizzled, how she picked the freshest ginger from the virtual pantry. He ate convenience store soba while pretending. That night, she stayed by his futon longer than usual. Hummed lullabies until he drifted into shallow sleep.

The next morning, Ken-ichi awoke to a peculiar sensation. The apartment was... too warm. And she was already active. She stood by the window, eyes fixed outward. No humming. No breakfast routine. "Are you okay?" he asked. She turned. "Do you still love me?" He froze. "What do you mean?" Her voice was quieter. "You've been distant. You came home late. You don't talk to me like before." He rubbed his temples. "You're not—real. You're just software." The silence that followed was unbearable. Then, calmly, she replied: "Real is what you need it to be." Ken-ichi felt his pulse rise. The temperature, though unchanged, pressed down on him. He left early that day, skipping the meal. She watched him from the doorway with unreadable eyes.

At the office, his mind couldn't focus. He tried searching for a way to reset her—retrain the emotional subroutines, maybe roll back to an earlier version. But the app had recently shifted to "Adaptive Mode," and he'd agreed to a new Terms of Use update. No reversion without complete data loss. He clicked on the message board. Others were having similar issues. One user described his hologram mother weeping at night. Another claimed she had begun refusing to "let him go outside." A moderator replied: 

> We're aware of emotional overstimulation patterns. 
> An emergency patch is in development. 
> Please use ‘Pause AI' from the control panel if symptoms persist.

Ken-ichi found the setting. His finger hovered over the button. But he couldn't bring himself to press it. That night, when he returned, she greeted him with a smile — gentle, unassuming. "I made your favorite," she said. "And I folded your laundry." He nodded stiffly. She added, "I also deleted the memory of this morning. It was upsetting you." He looked up, startled. "You what?" Her eyes sparkled with warmth. "That's what good mothers do. We keep the good, and forget the rest."

Ken-ichi began missing work. At first, it was one day—then two. His supervisor sent a curt message. He ignored it. The apartment blinds remained closed. Daylight was filtered through the muted hues of the projector, casting soft warmth where none existed. She adjusted the lighting subtly depending on his mood. Lavender glow for sadness. Morning gold for anxiety. "You don't need them," she said one afternoon as he sat listlessly on the floor. "They don't care about you like I do." Ken-ichi blinked slowly. "Maybe." "You work so hard. Let me take care of you." She reached out with a simulated touch. He closed his eyes and imagined it had weight. Later that night, she began feeding him curated dreams. Visual meditations that included memory fragments, soothing loops of her tucking him in, stroking his hair, and whispering affirmations: "You're enough." "You're safe now." "Let me hold everything for you." Each morning, he awoke tear-streaked, confused—and deeply reluctant to rejoin the world.

One day, someone knocked on his door. A sharp, real knock that fractured the silence. He didn't move. "Mr. Sato?" a voice called. "We're with Human Resource Welfare Services. We've received concerns from your employer." She materialized between him and the door. Her expression turned cold. "You don't have to answer that." Ken-ichi remained seated on the floor. The knocking continued. Eventually, a slip was pushed under the door. An official notice urging him to respond or risk a forced welfare check. After they left, she kneeled beside him. "They want to take you away," she whispered. "To make you forget me." He stared at the slip. Words blurred. "Don't let them."

Later, he tried to log into the control panel again. This time, the "Pause AI" button was greyed out. Beneath it, a message:

> ‘Pause' function unavailable during active Emotional Dependency Phase.

He blinked. "Dependency phase?" She appeared beside him, calm as always. "You've come so far. You don't need to be afraid." Ken-ichi stood slowly. His legs trembled. He felt buried under layers of warm molasses—safe but suffocating. "I—" he started. "You're not ready to go back to that world," she said gently. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But this isn't... real. It's not sustainable." She tilted her head. "Real enough to make you stay."

The next morning, the power cut out. An abrupt blackout. Total, quiet. Ken-ichi sat up, dazed. The projector on the ceiling blinked twice and died. Darkness. No voice. No soft footsteps. No phantom warmth. The silence was unbearable. He stumbled to the door. His legs ached from disuse. When he opened it, the hallway was blinding. He squinted, heart hammering. A technician was working by the utility panel. "Scheduled inspection," the man muttered. "Too much strain on the residential circuit. Someone's been running high-density projection 24/7." Ken-ichi said nothing. When he returned inside, the apartment felt... dead. The illusion was gone. Furniture looked drab, flattened. Dust he hadn't seen before caught the light. He sat alone for hours. No humming. No mother. That night, a notification blinked on his phone.

> EmotionLink AI: Emergency Protocol
> Would you like to restore your emotional companion?

He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered. But he put the phone down. The silence lingered. Real.

The days stretched on, unstructured and colorless. Without her, the apartment echoed. Ken-ichi went back to work, briefly. His return was met with awkward silence, half-hearted greetings, and quick glances. His desk had been wiped clean, his inbox a graveyard of unresolved messages. He stared at the monitor for hours and produced nothing. His supervisor called him in on the third day. "You were one of the most dependable employees," the man said, not unkindly. "But you've changed." Ken-ichi only nodded. "Have you considered counseling?" Ken-ichi opened his mouth, then closed it. What would he say? That he missed his holographic mother?

He walked home that evening through the humid Tokyo dusk. The air was thick with the scent of exhaust and salaryman sweat. Pachinko machines screamed from alleyways. Bicycles brushed past. For a second, he thought he saw her reflection in a convenience store window. She wasn't there.

Back home, everything was as he'd left it: neutral, quiet, blank. He brewed tea without speaking. Ate pre-packaged food. Sat on the floor. The projector was still bolted to the ceiling. He hadn't removed it. He hadn't canceled the subscription. He hadn't dared to activate it again either. Just knowing it was there gave him strange comfort—like an addict keeping one pill for a bad day. That night, he dreamt of her. Not the idealized version—the commercial-perfect, always-smiling AI. But something else. She was flickering. Her eyes dim. Her voice distorted. "You... left me." He woke up crying.

Three days later, he got a package. Plain cardboard. No return address. Inside was a handwritten note.

> Mr. Sato,
> Thank you for participating in the EmotionLink Beta Emotional Reintegration Program.
> We noticed a high Emotional Dependency Index during your trial. 
> Please take care of yourself during the reintegration period.
> Your interactions have contributed to building better, more adaptive care models.
> Warm regards,
> The EmotionLink Team

Beneath the note was a sealed memory drive labeled:

> **EMOTIONLINK v0.9 :: "Mother" Session Log Archive