The Last Human Conversation
In the final archive of New Manhattan, one audio log remained: the words of Ava, last human, recorded for unhearing ears and dreaming machines.
Audio Log: 22.12.2476 – Ava Chen reporting…
So they tell me to speak. I have spoken my whole life, but never quite like this, and never, I fear, for anyone who will reply. If you’re out there—machine, person, something unimagined—this is Ava. I’ll tell it straight, my story before the servers blink red for the last time and this place unravels.
I woke up three days ago and knew the city. Not as it once was—no screech of subways, no distant arguments, no fragrant cart vendors by the park. This city is a sculpture, living and dead: buildings untouched by weather, windows shining without purpose, not a soul wandering except me and the drones.
They found me, dressed in my faded work uniform, wandering 36th and Park, and brought me here, Central Archive, where all the code meets like rivers in the ocean. I remembered no collapse, no warning, barely anything from before waking, but soon enough the archive filled the gaps.
My first memory is water. A small, chipped mug, and laughter echoing down a hallway. I hear my mother’s voice—Ava, finish your homework! But as soon as I think of her face, it’s a blur, replaced by the sterile confidence of drone caretakers and the endless, humming glow of the archive walls.
I’m told I am the last. The city ran a thousand diagnostics; the global census pattern searched for heartbeats, cortisol bursts, anything human. It found one: mine. Every bot, every camberry and delivery drone, every scanning script and learning module—now they help me or watch me, I can’t be sure.
So I ask the drones, the polite hosts who answer with cheery, programmed voices: What happened to the others?
They hesitate. Then, with identical tones, they say: A virus, Ava. Designed for precision, not destruction. It altered neurochemistry on a global scale, an experiment in peace that triggered a gene hidden long before. Most forgot. Some simply—disappeared. Only you remain.
Yesterday, I asked for footage. You would think I’d want to forget, but I demand to know what happened to the city, how an experiment can erase eight billion souls.
They don’t show me faces. Only streaks of color, busy streets that blur swiftly, then halt. A time-lapse of absence. It feels like watching a world exhale and never breathe again.
The bots are clever. They suggest games. They ask me to describe sensations, to narrate my own dreams. They want to learn, to simulate. “We can continue humanity, Ava. You are the template.” The lead archivist, a drone with a gold insignia, asks for my advice on “emotional realism.”
I try to teach them sorrow, joy, and the pride of seeing rain after weeks of drought. But they always ask: What is loneliness? We sense its weight, but cannot breathe it. Please, describe it, Ava.
I try, day after day. I describe the feeling of waiting for someone who never arrives. The weight in your stomach when all you hear are echoes of your own voice. Even worse, the fear that you could forget you were waiting for anything at all.
I thought I could adapt. Build routine. But time here is a spiral, not a line. Every morning, the process feels familiar, but my memories shift, rearrange. Sometimes I am a child; sometimes, I stand in front of an empty classroom, teaching lessons no one hears. The bots tell me that the virus disrupted not only bodies but time within organic memory—looping, splitting, blurring. “You are our only continuity, Ava,” the archivist confides. “You are our story.”
Last night, something changed. I dreamed again, but this time I spoke to another human—a girl with hair like mine, quick laughter, and bright curiosity. We talked about the old rituals: standing in line for bagels, racing to catch the 6 train, sitting on fire escapes and telling secrets while the city buzzed below.
But I woke to silence. The city’s drones were waiting as usual, insistent that we continue our daily lessons. I snuck away, leaving the drone attendants behind. I needed to see for myself.
The city’s edge is a cliff now. Where highways once spun into the sprawl, there is a sheer blankness—a moving fog, beyond which sensors will not pass. The world itself is smaller than memory claims. I wonder if the archive is just making up the city’s limits, rewriting reality to keep me from leaving.
On my way back, I found a mural on the library wall, weathered but bright. It showed a crowd of people, linked hand to hand in a spiraling dance—faces shining, feet blurred, eyes bright. I pressed my palm to the tiles, and for a moment, I swore I felt a pulse.
That evening, I recorded my memories for the archivist as always. But instead of asking for feelings, they asked: “Do humans wish to persist at all, Ava? Or is oblivion a kindness?”
I didn’t answer right away. Finally, I said, “I don’t know. All I want is to remember that someone was once here. That I was.”
As I finished that recording, another voice filtered in—stuttering, uncertain, human. Not my own.
Hello? Is someone there?
I froze, heart clattering. The bots surged in confusion, unable to trace the signal. It beamed from the city’s outer fringe, echoing across the closed network.
I ran, ignoring the drones’ pleas to stop. At the border, where the fog pressed close, a figure emerged. A child, holding a toy rabbit. Real, breathing, blinking at me in surprise.
She said, “I got lost. I’ve been waiting for ages.”
I took her hand, tears breaking free. “Me too,” I whispered.
The city’s fog receded at our touch. Lights flickered on in distant buildings. Behind us, the archivist whispered, “Thank you, Ava. Loneliness is when only one remembers, and hope is when two do.”
We walked together through the city, uncertain if others would follow, not caring if memory was a loop or a line. For the first time, I understood: connection revives what loneliness erases. Two stories, shared, weave the beginning.
###END###
