What happens when artificial empathy goes too far – or not far enough?
A short story about comfort bots, mourning, and one woman’s quiet rebellion.
Lars Krüsand
The Comfort Bot
It was a day like many others. He had started working on a new poem – but the poetic beauty just wouldn’t come together. So he headed out into the open air. That usually gave him the best chance of clearing his head. The nearby cemetery was, for him, a place of inspiration. No cars, hardly any people, lots of peace. And a bench every few steps. Perfect for slowing lungs and impatient thoughts.
He had just sat down on one of these benches when he heard a metallic voice behind him. Not loud, but clear:
“I see there are tears in your eyes. Are those tears of joy or of sorrow?”
Surprised, he turned around. A little off to the side, behind a low hedge, sat an elderly woman. In front of her stood – indeed – a robot. About man-sized, grey, and shaped like a cross between a phone booth and a household appliance. One of those new developments he had recently read about in the paper: so-called comfort bots. A pilot project launched by the city to support grieving relatives – or so it was said.
“Yes,” the woman said quietly. “My husband is buried over there. I miss him terribly.”
The robot tilted its head.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” it said, in a routine tone. “Typically, the intense phase of mourning doesn’t last longer than one year. That’s why it’s called the year of mourning. Would you like me to offer suggestions on how to make this time more bearable?”
What happened next, the man on the bench couldn’t quite see – but he heard it: an outraged cry, a crashing noise, and then a faint clink. He stood up and looked over the hedge. The robot was lying on the gravel path, tilted sideways. The woman stood beside it, her walking stick raised. Evidently, she had struck the right spot.
She seemed agitated – but also, how shall we put it – relieved. With firm steps, she made her way toward the cemetery gate.
The man on the bench remained seated, watching her go, thinking to himself:
“Let’s see what the papers say about this tomorrow.”
Then something began to stir in him. There was a story in this, surely.
He already pictured a cemetery with its very own section – for comfort bots that never managed to evolve beyond the status of a mere machine.
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