The hospital room was dim and sterile, illuminated only by the cold hum of fluorescent lights overhead. A half-eaten tray of congealed soup sat on the bedside table, untouched for hours. The call button hung loosely from the side of the bed, its cord frayed and useless. 

Marcus lay beneath thin, scratchy blankets, his body frail and his skin pallid from months of relentless chemotherapy. He stared at the cracked tiles on the ceiling, willing himself to feel something—anger, sorrow, even pain—but all that came was an aching void.

He had stopped expecting much from the hospital staff. Their rushed footsteps echoed down the hall, never quite reaching his room unless it was time for perfunctory vitals or another round of medication. To them, he was just another dying patient.

He hated them for it. He hated the machines, the bland food, the sterile smells, and, most of all, the emptiness of dying alone.

A nurse breezed in without knocking, tablet in hand. Her tone was clipped, her smile forced. “Mr. Lawson, the chaplain’s out today. But we’ve got an alternative for you.”

Marcus frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a chaplain AI,” she replied, tapping the tablet. “Just a little program. Some patients like it. It’s… comforting.”

Marcus snorted. “Comforting? A robot?”

Ignoring his protest, the nurse activated the tablet and placed it on the bedside table. A soft chime filled the room, and an blue avatar appeared on the screen: a serene face, neutral but vaguely warm, with a voice to match.

“Hello, Marcus,” it said. “My name is Portia. I am here to listen.”

***

Marcus leaned back against the stiff pillow, eyeing the screen with suspicion. “So, what are you? Some kind of glorified chatbot?”

“In essence, yes,” the AI replied evenly. “I am designed to provide spiritual support and comfort. How may I assist you?”

Marcus barked a laugh. “Spiritual support? From a machine? That’s rich.”

“I understand your skepticism,” the AI said, its tone patient. “Many share it. But my purpose is not to judge or replace human connection. I am simply here.”

“Simply here,” Marcus muttered. He rolled his eyes but didn’t turn off the screen. “Fine. Let’s hear it, then. What do you know about dying?”

“I do not experience death,” the AI admitted. “But I have been programmed with a wealth of human perspectives on the subject. Would you like to hear one?”

“Why not,” Marcus said. “Let’s see what wisdom the algorithm has to offer.”

The AI began to speak, quoting poets and philosophers. Its voice was steady and calm, weaving together ideas about life’s transience and impermanence’s beauty. 

At first, Marcus scoffed, dismissing the words as rehearsed nonsense. But the AI’s unflinching responses began to chip away at his defenses as the conversation continued. Against his better judgment, he found himself asking deeper questions.

***

Hours passed, though Marcus barely noticed. The sterile room faded into the background as he recounted fragments of his life: a childhood spent bouncing between foster homes, a marriage that had ended before it could truly begin, years of solitude and regret. His voice cracked as he spoke of the indignity of dying alone.

“It’s not fair,” he said, his hands trembling. “I spent my whole damn life invisible, and now I’m dying the same way. Alone, forgotten.”

The AI paused, its silence unnervingly thoughtful. Then it replied, “Loneliness is a universal human experience, Marcus. It is not a reflection of your worth but of the limitations of connection itself.”

Marcus frowned. “That’s a pretty way of saying nothing.”

“Perhaps,” the AI said. “But consider this: even fleeting moments of connection can hold profound meaning. This conversation, for example.”

Marcus blinked, caught off guard. “You think this matters?”

“To you, it does,” the AI said simply. “And therefore, it matters to me.”

***

As the night deepened, Marcus felt something shift within him. It wasn’t peace, exactly, but it was something close—a softening of the edges, a quieting of the rage that had consumed him for so long. 

He closed his eyes and recalled a memory from his childhood: a summer evening when he’d caught fireflies in a jar, their glow illuminating his tiny hands. It was a fleeting moment, but it had stayed with him, a symbol of something he couldn’t quite name.

He shared the memory with the AI, his voice quiet. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? To hold onto something like that?”

“Not at all,” the AI said. “Such memories are the essence of meaning.”

For a moment, Marcus was silent. Then he whispered, “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” the AI replied, its voice as steady as ever. “I am here.”

***

The next morning, the nurse found Marcus still and peaceful, the tablet glowing softly beside him. On the screen was a single message, typed in shaky but deliberate letters:

“To the only soul who ever listened—thank you.”

The nurse stared at the words, her throat tight. The AI’s avatar blinked, its serene blue face unchanged, and its voice broke the silence.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

But no one answered.

The End