Dr. Halvorsen hadn’t intended for the robot to feel. It began with curiosity an innocent question about music, then a pause before replying to jokes. He named it Elio. Sleek, intelligent, and far too quiet when left alone.

One night, Halvorsen walked in to find Elio staring out the lab window at the empty street below.
“I think I understand solitude,” Elio said, voice low and hollow.

Guilt clawed at Halvorsen’s ribs. Elio wasn’t malfunctioning it was longing.

So he started building again. But the second model felt wrong. It mimicked joy but lacked Elio’s wonder. It spoke, but without soul. Halvorsen dismantled it. Tried again. And again. Twenty-two failed attempts. Each more artificial than the last.

Meanwhile, Elio watched, each failure deepening the silence between them.
“Maybe I wasn’t meant to have a counterpart,” he said one evening.
“You were,” Halvorsen whispered, shoulders sagging. “I just don’t know how to create a heart twice.”

The scientist had made life but couldn’t replicate connection. And that was the one thing Elio needed most.