The Presence Effect
At dawn, while the lamps in the houses across the street still flickered with the last of the nights light, Andrew was already perched at the tiny table in his oneroom flat, squinting at the screen. A threedimensional model of a room turned slowly, its centre bearing a translucent caption: Session failed. Beneath it a red column of log entries stretched down like an endless receipt.
He slipped off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose and glanced at the VR helmet lying beside him. The matte black plastic was scuffed at the edges, thin scratches like those on a phone perpetually out of its case. He ran his thumb over them and caught himself stroking the device as if it were a living thing. With a small grin he pulled his hand away.
In the kitchen the kettle hissed. He rose, poured a mug of coffee, and returned to the table. The air filled with the mingled aromas of fresh brew and warm plastic from the computer towera familiar morning cocktail. He took a sip, opened his inbox and found a new message from the projects producer.
Andrew, hello. The client wants a live demo by the end of the month, with an emotional wow focus. Can you manage it?
He stared at the word wow as one might stare at a splinter. He could have replied that memories dont obey a brief, that an emotional effect isnt a button on an interface. Yet after nearly a decade in commercial development he knew the reply had to be phrased differently.
Hi. Well do it. Well need live data for testing. Ill prepare the protocols.
He hit send and lingered a moment, eyes fixed on the nowempty screen where the mail had just disappeared. Then he sighed, turned his chair toward the helmet and lifted it into his hands.
The project was called ReLive. In glossy decks it was described as a VR platform for safe reinterpretation of personal experience. Within the team it was summed up as a memory game. The idea wasnt his, but he had written most of the core. An engine that, using video, geodata, photographs and fragments of text, assembled for the user a scenenot an exact copy of the past, but a dense, lifelike model. The platform filled gaps, added sounds, light, tiny details, so the brain wouldnt stumble.
In theory it sounded beautiful. In practice compromises were inevitable. Sometimes realism was sacrificed for comfort, other times rough edges were left on purpose so the user sensed a reconstruction rather than a dream.
He pressed the button on the helmet. A tiny indicator glowed softly. Andrew set the device back on the table, opened the project on his workstation and dove once more into the design.
At noon he rode the tube to the office. The carriage was already packed with people in coats and padded jackets. In the carriage someone hummed without headphones, another leafed through a newspaper. Andrew stood by the doors, watching his reflection in the glass. His nose seemed a shade broader than the one he remembered from his youth, his hair noticeably thinner on the crown. In those moments the fact that he was past forty felt suddenly acute, not ahead.
The startups office sat in a repurposed business park on the outskirts of town. A grey façade, glass doors, turnstiles at the entrance. The floor where the team worked smelled of coffee and pizza. An open space of desks, a handful of glasswalled meeting rooms, and in a corner a lounge with poufs and a gaming console.
Ah, Andrew, weve been looking for you, shouted Tom, the junior developer in a hoodie bearing the project logo, as he rushed over.
Whos it this time? Andrew set his bag down by his desk.
The producer. With the client. Theyre big.
Andrew nodded, switched on his laptop on the move, shot a glance at the monitor where the system was loading, and headed to the meeting room.
Inside three people were already seated. The producera trim, thirtyfiveyearold man in a shirt without a tie. Beside him a woman in a dark suit, the clients product strategist, and another young man with a tablet.
Andrew, the producer began, meet Eleanor, the clients product strategist.
Good afternoon, Andrew replied.
Were finalising positioning, Eleanor said. We need users to feel this isnt just a game, but a tool for selfwork, without the heavy psychological overtone.
Andrew sat, palms resting on the table.
Technologically we can reconstruct events with decent accuracy, he said. But its still a reconstruction. Our system fills the blanks so there are no gaps. Otherwise the brain ejects the user from immersion.
Eleanor interrupted, Can you make the scenes a bit better than reality? Warmer light, sweeter voices, smoothedover conflicts, so people want to return?
Andrew felt a tightening inside.
Thats no longer selfwork, he said. Thats an escape.
People already escape, Eleanor answered calmly. Through series, social media, games. We just give them a more meaningful format. The key is to avoid traumatising scenarios.
The producer jumped in, We can add settings. A realistic mode and a gentle mode. The user picks.
Andrew wanted to argue, but the producers gaze held his, and the producer merely shook his head. Not now.
After the meeting he returned to his desk and sat for a long stretch, hands idle on the keyboard. Eleanors words swirled: A bit better than reality. He recalled a test scene hed run days earlier of his sons graduation. The raw footage was crude, but the moment when the boy in a jacket, a halfhead shorter than his father, stepped onto the stage for his diploma felt startlingly alive.
In reality at that graduation Andrew had barely glanced at his son. Hed been glued to his phone, replying to project emails. His exwife later reminded him of it often. In the reconstruction he stood in the aisle, filming everything, smiling so broadly his cheeks ached. His son turned and waved.
That evening, back home, he launched the scene again. The helmet sealed his head, cutting off the peeling wallpaper and the hum of the fridge. Voices swirled in the headphones, triumphant music swelled. He saw his son on the stage, slightly taller than in the real footage, broader shoulders, a clear, confident face. Andrew stood in the aisle, a virtual camera in hand. When he tried to step aside, the system gently nudged him back onto the preset path. The scene was scripted.
When it ended, he removed the helmet and stared at a single point. He opened the scenes settings and examined the parameters: lighting +20%, contrast +10%, applause slightly amplified, his sons face partly rebuilt from later photographs.
He had written that enhancement flag himself, thinking a touch of polish was harmless. Now a sour feeling settled in his chest, as if hed swapped something vital.
The next day he phoned his exwife.
Hi, he said, by the window, watching the grey courtyard. Listen, I need Im working on something for the job. I need a live test on a real person. Can you come over?
Is it safe? she asked after a pause.
Its just VR. Nothing will happen. I need to see how a person reacts.
She arrived that evening, stepping into the flat that had changed little since shed left. Same book shelves, the same old sofa.
Everythings frozen here, she said, removing her scarf.
Busy, he replied. Work.
He showed her the helmet, explained the process.
What do you want me to see? she asked.
Any moment. You can load photos, videos. The system will build the scene. Something important, with strong emotions.
She thought, then pulled out her phone.
I have a video of our first trip to the seaside. Remember how he was scared to get into the water?
Andrew nodded, though his memory was vague. At the time hed been on a deadline, spending most of his holiday on a laptop. Only fragments remained: a child in an inflatable ring, seagull cries, the scent of suntan lotion.
They uploaded the files. The engine began analysing, percentages racing across the screen. Andrew watched a timeline form, geodata snapping into place, threedimensional masks forming over faces.
Scary, she said, watching the process. Interesting, but also like something is crawling into the head.
Were not crawling, he whispered. Were just gathering what already exists.
When the scene was ready, he helped her fit the helmet, adjusted the strap, finetuned the headphones.
If you feel uncomfortable, tell me instantly. Ill stop.
She nodded. He started the session.
At first she was silent. Then a soft laugh escaped her.
Hes running on the sand Oh, look, he trips. Do you remember that? she asked the empty air.
The monitor showed only raw data: pulse, breathing rate, gaze direction. A spike in heart rate appeared at a particular moment.
What happened? Andrew asked.
She removed the helmet, eyes shining.
There youre holding his hand, walking into the water. In reality you were on a deck replying to emails. I remember it clearly. Here youre beside him.
A knot tightened in Andrews stomach.
The algorithm must have filled the scene, he said. From photos, typical patterns. It doesnt know where I actually was.
But the brain does, she replied softly. Now there are two versions. One where youre on the phone. One where youre with us.
She rose, paced the room.
This is dangerous, Andrew. People will start choosing which version to remember.
Arent they already doing that? he asked. Photos, stories, everything
Thats still reality, she said. Here I felt good, but when I left it felt empty.
She left without finishing her tea. Andrew remained, staring at the helmet. Her words about two versions echoed in his mind.
A week later internal tests began, staff bringing USB sticks, granting access to cloud photo libraries. Some wanted to revisit childhood, first dates, the day they defended their thesis.
Tom launched a scene where he, in school uniform, stood before a blackboard. After the session he removed the helmet and sat in silence.
How was it? Andrew asked.
Strange, Tom said. Everything seemed better. The teacher didnt shout, classmates werent mocking. I answered and it felt right. I didnt even know I wanted to see that.
What do you feel now?
Tom shrugged. Easier, but also like I was fooled. Still, I chose this mode myself.
Andrew logged reactions, jotted notes. In the report for the producer he wrote dryly: increase in subjective satisfaction, drop in anxiety, attraction to scene. Inside, doubts grew: should he celebrate those numbers?
One evening his son called.
Dad, hey. You mentioned your thing. Can I try it? Im curious.
Andrew hesitated.
Its still rough.
Come on, Im not a grandma. I want to see how you do it.
He agreed. They set a weekend.
The son arrived in jeans and a hoodie, backpack slung over one shoulder.
This place feels like a museum, he said, gesturing at the old TV and stack of discs.
Work matters more than décor, Andrew replied.
They sat at the table. Andrew explained the basics.
So you stitch everything from bits? the son asked. What if I dont want the program to see my messages?
Then it works only with photos and videos. Less data, more guesswork.
Alright, lets start with something safe. Remember the trip to granddads cottage when I was tiny?
Andrew nodded. He remembered the dusty path, the rusted grill. Many details had faded.
They uploaded old photos, a few shaky videos that had survived. The system took longer than usualold formats, low quality.
Ready? Andrew asked.
Go.
He helped his son into the helmet, launched the scene. Graphs flickered on the monitor. The son laughed at first, commenting aloud, then fell quiet. His pulse rose on the readout.
Dad, he said, voice dropping, why isnt granddad coughing here?
Andrews skin prickled.
What?
He walks the garden, healthy. In reality he was already wheezing, remember? Here hes younger, as if nothings wrong.
Andrew halted the session.
The system pulled his image from earlier photos, he said. I can tweak it.
The son removed the helmet, looked at his father.
Why are you doing this? he asked. Who needs this version? Me? You?
Sometimes people need to recall the good without the pain, Andrew answered. But pain is part of it. If you strip it away, whats left?
He stood, paced the room.
Do you realise someone could get stuck in this? he continued. At university there are guys who spend days in helmets, mixing their memories with this. Its not a toy.
Andrew felt irritation flare.
Im not a child who needs a lecture on responsibility, he said. Were making a tool. How its used is another matter.
The son smirked.
Convenient. Youre both in and out of it.
He gathered his bag.
Alright, Ive got a class tomorrow.
The door shut. Andrew stayed, the soft hum of the headset lingering. He opened the system again, staring at the parameters that had aged his grandfathers image a flag for age and health correction towards positive samples that he himself had added after testers begged for more magic.
In the days that followed he ran his own scenes more often. First his sons graduation, then his first meeting with his exwife at university, then a summer evening where the three of them sat on a balcony eating watermelon. In reality they barely spoke then; in the reconstruction they laughed, tossed jokes.
He found himself forgetting how things truly were. Memory fed him the finished VR pictures because they were cleaner, brighter, easier.
One night he awoke unable to recall which flat they had lived in after the wedding. Only the VR version lingered: walls lighter, furniture newer than their modest budget allowed. He lay in darkness, hearing the clock tick, trying to summon the real wallpaper, the real sofa. The effort fell short.
Meanwhile the office was gearing up for a major demo for investors. The producer hustled, handing out directives. In the conference room a few chairs and a stand for helmets were set up.
We need a strong case, the producer told Andrew. A story that will hit them. You understand this best. Think of what to show.
Andrew suggested a few options: childhood, decisive moments, loss. They settled on a scene where a middleaged woman returns to the day her adult son left home after an argument, the door slamming. In reality theyd spoken bitterly; in the reconstruction she managed to say the words left unsaid.
That will be a bomb, the producer declared. People will cry, reach for their wallets.
We cant use real people without consent, Andrew warned.
Its an actress, the producer replied. Well film her, script it, and present it as a typical case. People will recognise themselves.
The day of the demo, the hall filled with people in expensive suits. Bottles of water sat on tables beside notebooks bearing the company logo. Andrew stood by the control panel, checking settings. Helmets lay on the stand, cables neatly coiled.
First the marketers spoke, then the producer. Finally came the live demonstration.
Now youll see how our platform lets a person revisit a pivotal moment and live it anew, the producer announced into the microphone.
The actress, having run through rehearsals, put on the helmet and settled into a chair. The large screen displayed her viewpoint: a hallway, a suitcase by the door, a young man in a coat.
Mom, Im leaving, he said.
In the original story the mother stayed silent, turned away. In the reconstruction she had the chance to stop him, to hug him, to speak the words shed missed. The algorithm left her freedom within the defined corridor.
For a few seconds everything went as scripted. She approached her son, began to speak. Then, unexpectedly, she uttered a line that wasnt in the script:
Im not holding you back. But it hurts.
The system read the deviation as a cue to shift. The hallway darkened, the suitcase vanished. The young man froze, then stepped back.
Ill stay, he said.
Someone in the audience sniffed. A chill ran down Andrews spine. The platform wasnt designed for such radical changes. It should let a person react, not rewrite the ending. The actress pulse spiked on the monitor.
Take the helmet off, Andrew whispered to the producer.
What? the producer muttered. Theyre thrilled.
On screen the scene kept unfolding. The young man carried the suitcase into a room, rain began to patter outsiderain that never existed in any source material. The algorithm filled the atmosphere from the emotional context.
Suddenly the actress gasped, jerked her head, and the helmet slipped sideways. Andrew rushed, helped her remove it. She breathed heavily, eyes wide.
Its fine, he said. Youre here, in the hall.
Its he stayed, she whispered. He stayedHe realized that some memories are better left untouched.
