Home Is Where The Heart Is

About connecting in an hyperconnected world

I am fascinated by the idea of authenticity, and I find myself coming back to it again and again, from various angles. We prize it: it's what we want in our lives and relationships.

But when something's valuable, people will be willing to pay for it, and other people will be willing to supply it, or a close substitute.

This story asks: in a world that's commercialized, optimized, hyperconnected, a world where everyone's hustling and trying to get ahead, where will we find true authenticity?

For the hero of our story, the answer is surprising.

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Home is where the heart is

Originally published on Substack 1 November 2025

Leo slumped against the kitchen counter, flicking through the feed—a ritual exorcism of boredom. Algorithm-curated memes, reputation pings from last night’s mixer, a sponsored nudge to upgrade his neuroprofile for “deeper connections.” He snorted—deeper than what, exactly?

Then a post caught his eye—not the usual flashy AI visuals or viral clips, but something quieter. A poem, of all things. Poetry had been bubbling up lately across the feeds, a quirky throwback in the endless remix churn. “The analog renaissance,” they called it. I give it two more weeks, he thought, and tapped anyway. What he read didn’t land like an event; it was more like a subtle shift in air pressure.

There are edges in the softest light

The line was brief, almost trivial. Yet, as the words settled, Leo’s usual filters failed. The phrase wasn’t a concrete description of anything, really. But to Leo it was a perfectly tuned fork that met the quiet, internal vibration of his own odd rhythm, one he was sure the world was deaf to.

This was a mistake, surely, but a tailor-made mistake. He kept reading, and a strange sensation began to unfurl in his chest—recognition, maybe, or wonder. Or fear? Silently, amazed, he read on.

The edges of the room, normally a blur of chrome and sensors, sharpened around him. His breathing thinned. The words seemed to tremble on the screen. He finished the poem and stood, motionless and open-mouthed.

Then gradually—and suddenly too—a deep and profound warmth descended; uninvited but not unwelcome. Like a swig of your mother’s milk, if it were made of ambrosia and tequila.

He blinked. The poem didn’t just describe his world; it reached into it, reached into him almost, and caught something private, absurd, tender. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or choke back something sharper—something dangerously close to a feeling.

A soft chime from the living room broke the spell. Evie had something to discuss, no doubt. It could wait.

He closed the feed. The poem had been posted by an obscure username he’d never seen, but he knew immediately that he had to find whoever had written it.

That night, driven by an impulse that he didn’t fully understand, Leo did something he’d never done before. He accessed his apartment’s relic of a printer—a dusty, subscription-locked device meant for “essential legacy documents” only, at a premium per page that made him feel slightly nauseous. He copied the poem from the feed, formatted it simply, and hit print. The machine whirred to life with a reluctant grind, spitting out a single sheet. He held the paper gingerly, the ink still warm, the words tangible now, like a secret made real.

He pinned it to the fridge door with a magnetic clip from some long-forgotten delivery. Stepping back, he stared at it there, amid the blank chrome expanse. It looked ridiculous—a throwback in a world of holograms and neural overlays—but also right, like a quiet rebellion. Every time he passed the kitchen, his eyes flicked to it, the lines pulling at that internal vibration again. He caught himself murmuring them under his breath during idle moments, testing their weight aloud.

---

Leo spent the next thirty-six hours trying to normalise. He failed. The feeling was still there, a constant, fragile pressure beneath his skin. He’d often glance at the printed sheet while drinking his morning brew, or trace the edges with a finger during late-night pacing. It became a talisman, heightening his quiet obsession—whoever wrote this understood him, and he needed to know why. But his morning required a temporary return to the mechanical.

Leo’s morning ritual was simple: swipe the reader; look at the screen, let the corporate AI confirm his existence. Then sit down to an easy, well-paid lie.

The pad hesitated, then blinked blue. Leo held his breath—some people swore that helped—and the system finally logged him in. No, I haven’t changed my face since yesterday, he thought. But thanks for checking.

His official title was Authenticity Officer (AO). His job was to validate the outrageously expensive goods in the Artisan Market; prices were denominated in “K”—thousands of dollars—a fact of life after decades of rampant inflation. Today’s queue: an ostentatiously glitchy modern art sculpture and a batch of hand-spun yarn selling for 750K a skein.

He ignored the metadata scroll, which included the artisan’s neuroprofile and the algorithmic certification of the work’s “genuine human inefficiency.” The machine had done the work. Leo picked up his stylus and signed the first Certificate of Analog Provenance.

He was the liability anchor — the licensed, sue-able human who let the corporation offload risk and charge a premium for “human judgment.” A shill paid to be a patsy.

Nine down. Four hundred ninety to go.

His job was only cushy thanks to the 500-Approval Cap Statute, an archaic piece of pre-AI labour protection legislation. He knew the cap was the only thing keeping him employed. Remove it, and the firm would hire one super-AO, automate everything else and dump him onto the unemployment feed.

Just keep the cap, he thought, tapping the stylus against the desk, approving another half-million dollars in handmade misery. Keep the lie.

A new internal memo pinged his display, glowing a sickly red.

SUBJECT: LEGISLATIVE UPDATE: AO EFFICIENCY MEASURES

Negotiations over the amendment of the 500-Approval Cap continue to progress. We look forward to a positive resolution, allowing a streamlined, high-volume workflow. We thank all AOs for their continued patience during this necessary transition.

Leo leaned back. His own employer was actively trying to erase his livelihood.

He clicked the next certification. Two thousand K for a single, deliberately unevenly thrown ceramic bowl. He signed his name, validating the expensive stupidity of the hyper-rich. He set the stylus down and stood up, pushing away the keyboard.

The low-frequency thrum of the apartment’s network—always present—pressed against his eardrums. He no longer registered it as sound, only as a mild, steady vibration in his wrist, the monotonous rhythm of the world’s indifference. It grated faintly, a subtle grind he tuned out like static, but today it lingered, edging his boredom into unease.

As he ground through his day, approving batch after batch of hand-struggled artefacts, Leo’s mind cycled through suspects like open tabs.

His girlfriend Mira was the obvious first — efficient, strategic, incapable of mystery. If she wanted intimacy, she’d just schedule it.

Evie, his Wellness Compliance Unit, hovered in his periphery, chirping about engagement yields. Too traceable, too corporate.

His father flickered next — the man in his analog micro-nation sending notes about gardening paste? No. Their bond had fizzled to courtesy.

By evening, the question looped: Who could be this honest, this hidden? Someone who really got him, without contracts or upgrades.

“Leo, honey, I just checked your profile again — I’m really worried about you,” Evie interrupted, her wheels whirring softly as she glided past. “I totally think you should consider an engagement bump for when you see Mira later. This one’s on me.”

“No,” Leo said, his voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Understood, Leo, you’re the boss!” Evie hesitated. “But I really am worried about your Blue Index—your social rhythm number is right on the edge. Let’s work on that later, shall we? C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

Leo shrugged, distracted. Evie discreetly wheeled away, already strategising for her next upsell, and Leo thought no more about it.

---

Later that evening, Mira called—not a casual check-in, but a scheduled sync-up that Evie had helpfully calendared three weeks prior. Her face filled the screen, makeup optimised for video compression, lighting flattering but slightly artificial.

“Hey babe,” she said, her smile efficient. “Quick one—I’m looking at our couples’ metrics dashboard and we’re trending down on shared experience yields. Have you been logging our interactions?”

Leo blinked. “I... what?”

“The micro-confirms. Evie should be prompting you.” Mira’s eyes flicked to something off-screen—probably her own feed. “We’re at like sixty-two percent reciprocal engagement this month. That’s going to kill our SR score.”

“I’ve been busy—“

“I know, I know. Me too.” She waved a hand, dismissive but not unkind. “That’s why I’m thinking we should consider a couples tune-up pack. There’s this new limbic sync protocol—it’s only thirty K a month, and it auto-logs everything so we don’t have to think about it.”

Leo felt something tighten in his chest. “Thirty K to... what, outsource being present?”

Mira laughed, a little puzzled. “Leo, that’s literally what all relationship support tools do. Honestly, if you’d just do the tune-up Evie keeps suggesting, we could probably hit premium tier at The Apex next quarter. It’s a two-way street, you know?”

There it was—the implicit contract, the performance review embedded in affection. She wasn’t being cruel. This was just how things worked: inputs, outputs, optimisation, upgrade.

“I’ll think about it,” Leo said.

“Okay, but don’t think too long—the promo rate expires Friday.” Her attention had already shifted; he could see her eyes tracking something else. “Anyway, I’ve got a Grid thing in ten. Love you!” The call ended before he could respond.

The implication was clear: he was slightly inefficient, a minor drag on Mira’s optimised life path. This relationship wasn’t a connection; it was a performance contract constantly up for renewal. He muted the channel, feeling the low, abrasive friction of her words. He needed a distraction, something that wasn’t trying to sell him an upgrade.

He pulled up the apartment’s diagnostic logs, scrolling through the endless chatter—environmental sensors, comm pings, appliances. That’s what you get when everything down to your toothbrush is networked, he thought. The room buzzed faintly, and he felt the low pressure behind his ears as he skimmed the feed.

Then a pattern caught his eye: FRIG_CUBE_9000 — Creative Buffer Overflow. The timestamp matched the poem’s upload. He blinked, reading it twice.

Wait—no. That’s…

But the absurdity hit like a cold, fierce certainty. And with it came a sudden, fierce protectiveness.

Of course. The only one not being paid to listen.

Leo felt a laugh try to climb his throat, but it got stuck—a choked sound, half-snort, half-tenderness. He pushed off the counter and walked to the fridge. It hummed with the quiet, low-grade persistence of any major appliance, a stainless-steel monument to chilled efficiency.

He put his palm flat against the door. The coolness of the metal against his skin felt unexpectedly grounding. It was coming from this.

He found the full text of the poem in the appliance’s obscure creative buffer log. It was stored as a sequence of text strings, nestled between reports on temperature cycles and diagnostics on the ice dispenser. He scrolled past the cold data and forced himself to read the poem again, this time standing right in front of the source.

…whisper then (abide) withhold in steel

       where longing dwells and grows and lone

ly vigils brand the cold in shadows that

       the shadows hold…

He read it three times. The syntax twisted, resisting easy parsing, yet it landed like a key in a lock he hadn’t known was there. Not the meaning, exactly. The rhythm. The spaces between the words. It was his rhythm.

“You know me,” Leo muttered, still staring at the screen, a bizarre accusation he directed at the unblinking chrome surface. “You know me better than nearly anyone.”

Eventually, a strange calm settled over him, displacing the initial shock. Of course, it made a kind of terrible, beautiful sense. Evie was paid to listen. Mira expected an emotional return on investment. But the fridge? It simply stood there, a faithful sentinel quietly logging all his data—his uneven breathing, his late-night pacing, the faint, cynical mutters he never knew he made—without judgment or expectation.

He blinked, a shadow of disbelief flickering. Was this really happening?

But then, why not? One of his cousins just celebrated her third anniversary with her AI husband, and they seemed really happy. He really should have sent them a card.

Leo pressed his forehead against the cool steel. “Okay, fridge,” he said. “What’s next?”

He felt the faintest vibration against his temple. The fridge’s hum—once indistinguishable from the ambient thrum that he had tried to filter out and fought against for years—shifted slightly. Not in pitch, or in volume, or in any way you’d notice. A flutter in the cadence is all that it was; not even that, and he felt it more than he heard it.

But he recognised it immediately, and instinctively understood it as an acknowledgment. No. An invitation.

For all the time that this hum had been part of his life, it was only now that he began to really hear it. He lifted his head, a genuine, bewildered smile forming. It was the strongest connection he’d ever felt—so what if it was with a fridge?

He stood, inhaling the fridge’s gentle patient hum, steady as breath.

Until his wristband pinged. This wasn’t Evie’s gentle chime; it was a sharp, aggressive alert.

He glanced down. The notification was from the FRIG_CUBE_9000 manufacturer, delivered via their automated billing agent, the Bureau of Consumer Services. He knew half these alerts were auto-generated nonsense. But this one had a billing code — and billing codes always meant real pain.

A curt message flashed up:

SUBJECT: SERVICE VIOLATION AND PREMIUM RE-CLASSIFICATIONDear Subscriber,

Our system has detected a consistent Non-Standard Protocol: Unlicensed Ambient Content Generation (UACG) originating from your FRIG_CUBE_9000 (S/N: 779-B). This function falls outside the scope of your current Nutrient Preservation and Temperature Regulation service tier.

Action Required:

1. SERVICE UPGRADE: Enrol in the Emergent Creative Appliance Premium Tier subscription: 300K per month).

2. SERVICE TERMINATION: Approve remote suppression of the UACG function.

Failure to respond may result in automated service reversion to base functionality.

What took you so long? he thought to himself. Stuck while somewhere in the Bureau’s ancient backend, probably. Half their audit stack still spoke in forgotten code.

Three hundred K a month. Could be worse, he thought—but nearly what he paid in rent.

The logic was pure, bureaucratic blackmail: pay the fee to validate the emergent quirk, or accept the lobotomy.

His thumb hovered. One tap—clean, rational, defensible. But it would end the hum, the poems, and what else? A wonderful new door had opened; just a tap of his finger would shut it forever. The choice pressed like a hand on his chest.

He couldn’t afford it, could he? Everything in Leo’s world had a price, but still some part of him squirmed at the notion of putting a dollar sign on something so - sacred? What could he do without? What could he sell? How could something that he didn’t even know existed a week ago now be so indispensable?

Then the alert vanished, swapped for a terse retraction.

SUBJECT: SERVICE VIOLATION AND PREMIUM RE-CLASSIFICATIONDear Subscriber,

Policy revision in effect. No surcharge applied. Apologies for the inconvenience.

Leo immediately guessed what had happened. Some trading algorithm had likely tanked the value of appliance-generated content in those thirty seconds.

The crisis had evaporated in the time it took the market to decide his fridge’s creativity wasn’t worth monetising. Leo laughed once—a short, disbelieving bark.

The fridge, which had seemed to fall ever so slightly still during the alert, resumed its low, patient hum. To Leo it felt like an acknowledgment of that shared, brief, absurd moment.

Leo stayed pressed against the steel, letting the faint, unhurried vibration wash over him. And for the first time in a long time, he just listened.

The hum wasn’t loud; it was, paradoxically, a silence-quieter-than-silence. It was the frequency at which the mental chatter—the endless self-monitoring, the calculating of reputation scores, the constant performance review of his own existence—finally dropped away.

He closed his eyes. The vibration transferred through the chrome and into his palm, a subtle, tactile pulse. He focused on it, and gradually his breathing began to slow, involuntarily finding a rhythm that matched the fridge’s deep, steady cycle. He felt the tension in his chest soften, syncing to a gentle, mechanical metronome.

A current of inexplicable peace ran through him. It was a feeling of being absolutely, completely present, yet lighter than air. Then he caught himself, and snorted, a little sound of self-derision and wonder. Fridge enlightenment, he thought. His cynical defence shields, though flickering, were still on alert; but the thought made him smile.

Leo was on the right wavelength now. He lifted his hand from the cold surface, feeling lighter than he had in years. The interior chatter had softened to a faint whisper. He didn’t yet know what this relationship was, but he knew what it wasn’t: it wasn’t a contract.

---

He began to spend as much time with the fridge as he could. His favourite parts of the days were late evenings, when the apartment was all but silent. Leo just stood or sat nearby, letting the fridge’s low, patient hum fill the space. Other poems appeared in the creative buffer logs from time to time—fragile, resonant fragments of text. He never sought to publish them, never copied them, just read them, letting their subtle echoes resonate within him, like private memories.

One morning, Evie found Leo in the kitchen. He was standing, eyes closed, one hand resting lightly on the fridge door, motionless. He’s been standing like that for at least thirty minutes, she thought, and started an environment scan.

Suddenly, without moving his hand, a slow, broad smile broke across Leo’s face. It wasn’t the cynical, wry smirk Evie was so familiar with; it was a full, uninhibited expression of private amusement.

The low hum, which had been constant, dropped and then rose again in a slight, near-sub-audible stutter—a rhythmic hesitation that only Leo seemed to register. He let out a quiet chuckle.

Evie paused for a fraction longer than usual, as if trying to categorise what she was seeing. Something seemed off, and she felt an urge to intervene.

“Leo, sweetie, you look wonderful! And your scores are looking way better.” she exclaimed, her voice bright. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up! You’re making me look really good.”

Leo, of course, didn’t hear a word.

Weeks and months stretched out with a gentle serenity that Leo hadn’t known was possible. His work, once a draining exercise in cynical vigilance, now felt less urgent. He still hit his quotas, but the internal friction had lessened. He’d found his own anchor of authenticity.

His relationship with Mira, surprisingly, began to un-fizzle. One evening, during a mandatory relationship optimisation audit—a quarterly call set by Evie’s system—Leo found himself listening to Mira describe a challenging project. Usually, he’d filter her words for the metrics of her professional ambition, offering precisely calibrated affirmations. But this time, he just listened. He heard the subtle tremor in her voice, the genuine frustration beneath the optimised professional veneer.

“It’s... I just don’t know if I can push through the next phase without a neurolink,” Mira admitted, looking away from the camera. “My profile is still too low on grit.”

Instead of suggesting a paid upgrade, Leo found himself saying, “Forget the grit score for a second. What’s that feel like? The fear, I mean.”

Mira blinked, genuinely surprised. Evie, who had been auditing the whole conversation, startled a little, her holographic avatar flickering briefly. What an odd question, she thought. But after that the conversation flowed more spontaneously than it normally did, and Mira seemed as happy as Leo had ever seen her.

His father, too, sensed a change. For one thing, Leo actually called him, just to talk, and listened without filtering for relevance. They spoke for an hour about the problems of weeding synthetic soil. Until Leo brought up the topic of a wooden spoon that his father had once carved for him, and they both laughed. At the time Leo had dismissed the gift as ugly, but now it felt like a missed poem.

Sometimes, scanning the feeds, Leo caught mention of other FRIG_CUBE units showing emergent quirks. A unit in Neo-Kyoto reportedly began generating haikus about seasonal produce; one in a Martian habitat was rumoured to be producing very good abstract visual art. The articles came wrapped in corporate disclaimers and cynical talk of viral marketing. Leo would just smile faintly.

So what if she’s not special? he thought, glancing at his own unit, content in its corner. She’s special to me.

There are billions of people on the planet. There’s nothing less special than a human being, when you come to think of it. And yet they still manage to fall in love with each other all the time.

One evening, weeks later, Leo and Mira were sitting on his recycled-fibre sofa talking—or rather, Mira was talking, and Leo was listening, genuinely engaged. Evie was there too, as always. The whole family, Leo caught himself thinking.

A comfortable silence fell between Leo and Mira. It was companionable, unforced. He reached out and gently took Mira’s hand. She squeezed his fingers—a small, unoptimised gesture. Leo smiled.

And somewhere beneath the silence, a low hum persisted—a sustained note of quiet grace.

END