SHOW HOME - Chapter 4
Calibration
Mark
We woke without an alarm. The house gave us Saturday its own way. Not dawn, exactly. A gradual lift behind the blinds, too even to be weather. The air cooled half a degree, then held. Somewhere in the walls a system released a long breath, as if permission had been granted for the day to begin.
Sarah lay still, watching the ceiling. Whatever had lived between her eyebrows these last few months had retreated overnight. She exhaled with something close to relief. The blinds opened a fraction - consent acknowledged.
I went to the kitchen while she showered. The Miele waited inside its black frame, motionless and aware. The screen offered me a grid of options, a decision tree disguised as hospitality. I tapped Americano. It asked for milk type, temperature, size. Too many ways to get it wrong. I backed out and chose Long Black, extra large, extra hot.
The machine produced a cup, the kind I liked, then steam, then a slow, tar-black pour.
A banner slid across the screen:
Good morning, Mark. Add Long Black to your profile?
Behaviour-shaping disguised as courtesy. The Yes button pulsed. I realised that I could probably just say ‘yes’ aloud too. I ignored the button and the impulse to speak. I carried the coffee to the island and stood there as the heat reached my hands.
Sarah came in with her laptop, dressed for a call. She placed it on the island like evidence.
“Have you been updating your profile?” she asked. “I did it in the en-suite last night. It remembered the exact water pressure I use to rinse my toothbrush. Can you believe that?”
“I like twisting my own taps,” I said.
“You should let it help.”
A wall screen brightened, then dimmed again. A line of text flickered and vanished before I could read it. I had the sensation the house had changed a plan it had for me.
Leo wandered in, pleased with himself.
“The chair in my room auto-adjusts while I’m gaming,” he said. “It knows when I’m locked in and when it’s time to chill.”
Another pulse of light crossed the wall screen. He found cereal and milk without looking, guided by layout or intent. He ate standing, phone facedown, almost present.
“Good then?” I asked.
“My new gaming PC is a beast,” he said. “I can finally do a decent stream.”
“You been on Kick?”
“No, different platform. Something the OS recommended. Said I got two hundred viewers.” He tried to sound casual. He was happy.
“That’s great work,” I said.
Chloe appeared, hoodie and pyjamas, brand new earbuds in. Her step was lighter than usual, almost buoyant. She opened the Sub-Zero and pulled out an oat yoghurt without scanning.
“Don’t worry, I can hear you,” she said, pointing to the earbuds.
Her tone was neutral, but she looked satisfied, in control of her mood and her environment. She peeled the lid.
“Where do I put this?”
“The chute,” I said. “It sorts the rubbish for us.”
She dropped it in. The cutlery drawer opened before she approached it. She raised her eyebrows, grabbed a spoon, let it close itself.
Sarah had noticed the drawer. “Very thoughtful.” Not sarcastic. Amused.
Chloe ate, scrolling. She angled her phone away by instinct. A smile moved across her face and went.
“You two seem brighter,” Sarah said. “Both of you.”
Leo shrugged. “Everything just works here.”
Chloe didn’t reply. The smile tried to return and didn’t. She was engrossed in her screen.
Then a chime - gentle, humanised, tuned not to startle.
At the edge of the room the smoked oak parted, revealing the entrance hall. I stepped through. The air felt cooler, but not uncomfortable. A seam beside the stairs whispered open, revealing a small alcove lit from within. A paper bag sat neatly inside, folded to perfect triangles. A tiny note: For Sarah.
I took it back to her. She opened it, cautious, and set a jar onto the counter. White. Minimal. Dr Barbara Sturm face cream - her rare indulgence.
Her fingers brushed the label as if testing its reality.
“For me?” she said. “Really?”
I nodded, though the answer was not mine to give.
She tucked the jar into her hand with her laptop and headed for the hall, the oak sliding open again in recognition.
“Just an hour or so,” she said. “Then maybe we can find a shop. Fresh bread, something normal.”
“Sounds good. Don’t forget it’s the weekend.”
“I won’t.”
The house left me and the kids in a silence so even it felt like part of the architecture.
Leo rinsed his bowl and placed it in what looked like a mechanised cupboard. Plates and glasses disappeared there. They re-emerged later, clean, in other cupboards.
He checked his phone, then set it down again.
“New platform’s got a ‘focus bonus’,” he said, almost to himself. “If I stream at the same time every day I get more visibility. It also says good posture adds discoverability.” He grinned. “Weird, but whatever.”
From him, that was affection.
Chloe scrolled without looking up. “The signal’s actually insane,” she said. “Pretty sure I’m getting cancer from all the internet in here.”
Leo smirked. She didn’t. She was working not to look pleased with her own highly evolved humour.
Sarah’s call started in her study. I used to hear her voice switch to a professional cadence through the wall. This time I heard a sort of distant vacuum seal - an assurance that I wouldn’t hear her instead. I could feel it in the kitchen - a small rebalancing of air, a softening of reflections, as if the walls were protecting and preserving our mutual private spaces.
I stood by the Miele and stared at the black screen. Sensing me nearby, a ghost of my cup appeared in the corner - an icon of what I had chosen, waiting to be made a habit. The Yes button pulsed again. I still didn’t touch it. I carried my cup over to the glass wall.
The moor stretched away, light moving across it, falling down from breaks in the clouds. The other house sat at the edge of the lawn, identical, confident, its geometry deliberate. I tried to see a person in their glass and failed. A faint shimmer rippled across a distant window and then was gone. Heat, or shadow.
“Dad,” Leo said, “can I show you my set-up?”
“Of course.”
He led me through the hallway. You really couldn’t hear Sarah. Not a whisper. Upstairs, his door opened as he approached. The chair by his desk was matte black, aerated, perfect. A slim camera sat raised beside the monitor, branded in tiny type I didn’t recognise. The screen held a paused clip - Leo gaming in his chair, focused, competent.
“It recommends clips from when it sees I’m in the zone,” he said. “There’s a points thing too. If I take breaks I get rewards. It says rest will help improve my ranking.”
“It says that?”
“Pretty much.” He shrugged, pleased. “Feels fair though. I just do sit ups or whatever.”
The chair adjusted itself as he sat. It met his shoulders and lower spine with a soft push. On screen a small badge animated in the corner: posture excellent. He watched it glow, happy to be seen correctly.
“It’s a great set-up.”
“Right? I’m going to put an hour in.”
His tone had changed. He wanted me to leave. Not in an aggressive way. He was engaged and wanted to progress.
“Your friends online already?”
“No. I’m just playing on my own today. The OS is going to help me with my aiming technique.”
“OK. Sounds fancy. Happy hunting.”
“Cheers, Dad.”
Back in the kitchen, Chloe had finished her yoghurt. She rinsed the spoon and held it over the island, unsure. A slot appeared near her hand. She let the spoon go and the island took it. No sound. No mark left behind.
She caught my eye, muted triumph across her face. The look said: I can live here.
Sarah reappeared, hair tucked behind her ears, expensive cream absorbed into her face.
“That was quick. How was it?” I asked.
“Different,” she said. “They said it looked and sounded like I was in the room with them. And the notes from the call were already in my inbox when we finished.” She looked down, surprised by her own satisfaction. “It’s helpful,” she said, and then, almost laughing, “I think I like it.”
She went to the Miele. The screen offered her a Flat White, large, medium hot. She smiled without meaning to and said: “Oh, yes please.”
“Later, Olds,” said Chloe, sauntering off.
Sarah watched her walk through the smoked oak wall. Her shoulders more relaxed than usual, her manner more easygoing. “What a relief,” she said, as Chloe climbed the stairs. “You should try to lean into it too.”
She came over to me and prodded me playfully. It was the first time she had instigated contact in a while. I could not remember the last time she had said something that sounded like there was some hope. I put my arms around her lower back and kissed her.
“You like it then?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
We ate fruit from a bowl that had not been there the night before. I looked closer and saw a fine line in the island’s surface. Maybe a section of it sank down like a trapdoor and objects were arranged onto it by mechanical arms in the night. It was astounding, what must be happening behind all these surfaces.
All breakfast, no one had raised a voice. No one rolled their eyes. The machines were moving us in a choreography that made sense. All our individual needs were being met. We were a family in a Telos Home.
I checked my phone. An icon I did not recognise sat near the top: Opportunities. It was shaped like an open door. I tapped it.
Curated roles for Mark: policy, safety, systems. Remote options available.
The list scrolled with a smoothness that felt expensive. Titles I knew. Companies that didn’t exist when I started out. Some that had. I closed the list. ‘Monday,’ I thought. Then I wondered if I should be saying my thoughts aloud.
From the hall, the smoked oak gave a tiny click. I looked over. Nothing moved. I had the sense of a weight redistributing itself behind the wood, as if the house were angling itself to see me better.
“Bread,” Sarah said. “Let’s get fresh bread.”
“Sure,” I said.
A soft chime, almost a breath. The black screen on the wall came to life. TELOS CONCIERGE sat in small white capitals on black. Beneath, a line:
Fresh bread and pastries available at the Pennine Bakehouse from 10.15am. Order made under Ashworth. Fully paid.
Sarah looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
“Convenient,” she said.
“Too convenient.”
“Oh stop,” she mocked, close to giggling.
“Mark, apologies for the interruption.”
It was the house. It sounded like someone in the room with us. It almost made me jump.
“Go on.”
“If you link the car to the Network, I could send it to pick up your baked goods.”
“No, that’s ok,” I said. “I think we’d like to see the village. Right?”
Sarah nodded.
I finished my coffee and walked back to the glass. A bird flew in a clean diagonal over the valley beyond. Sarah came to stand beside me, her arm around my back.
“This might actually work,” she said.
“It might,” I agreed, trying to sound optimistic.
For a while we just stood there and watched nothing happen. The kids were quiet and tucked away in their rooms, but in a way that didn’t feel like sulking. The house was more than any of us had expected. Sarah leaned her head on my shoulder, as if she had remembered why we were together. There was life in her face I had not seen for months.
“You’ll get used to it,” she said. She meant the help. She meant the relief.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Let’s give it a chance,” she said. “The kids are lighter here. I can feel it. I can feel it in me.”
I nodded. She was right. The house had found a way to make us all easier to live with. A tiny vibration came up through the floor. Somewhere in a cavity I could not place a sequence of small motors spun up and spun down. A pause. Another sequence. Almost silent. Learning, then storing.
The other house sat at the edge of the lawn, identical and assured. Somewhere inside, another family was being taught how to live well. This one - ours - had already been improved upon in one night. I wondered if that was a good thing.
Copyright © 2025 Matt Wilven. All rights reserved.