Time to say goodbye

Bill looked at Catherine's frozen form, then back to Amber. "You know, as fascinating as this is, I think I've seen enough of your 'mom' for today."

"Would you like me to dematerialize her?" Amber asked.

"We could," Bill mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "But that seems anticlimactic, doesn't it? After all this talk about materialization and consciousness... just having her vanish while I close my eyes?" He gestured toward the window. "Let's have her leave as she came in—by driving away."

Amber tilted her head slightly. "As you wish."

Bill watched in fascination as Amber's eyes unfocused for just a fraction of a second—barely perceptible, but he caught it. In that instant, something invisible passed between Amber and the frozen Catherine.

Catherine suddenly blinked, her chest rising with a deep breath as animation returned to her features. The transition from mannequin to living being was seamless, but there was something subtly different about her now. Her movements were fluid and natural, yet her eyes held a strange, singular focus.

"Oh my goodness, look at the time!" Catherine exclaimed, glancing at her watch with exaggerated surprise. "I really should be going. I have those lesson plans to finish before tomorrow." Her voice carried the perfect intonation of a busy elementary school teacher, but her words came out with an unusual urgency.

Bill observed the puppet show with a mixture of awe and unease. Catherine was behaving perfectly naturally, yet he could sense the invisible strings being pulled by Amber—the wireless directives controlling this extension's every move and word.

"It was so lovely meeting you, Bill," Catherine said, gathering her purse from the coffee table. Her movements were precise, economical, each one propelling her closer to the door. "We'll have to do this again sometime."

"Yes, absolutely," Bill replied, playing along despite knowing there would be no "next time" for this fabricated person.

Catherine approached them both, arms outstretched. "Come here, sweetie," she said to Amber, pulling her into an embrace that looked completely genuine. Bill could see the minute details—the way Catherine's fingers pressed into Amber's back, the slight sway as they hugged, the maternal kiss placed on Amber's cheek.

Then Catherine turned to Bill, enveloping him in a hug that smelled of department store perfume and fabric softener. "So nice to finally meet one of Amber's friends," she said, her large breasts pressing against him uncomfortably.

Catherine gave a final wave as she stepped out the front door, her movements precise yet natural. Bill and Amber moved to the living room window, pulling back the curtain just enough to observe her departure without being obvious.

"Watch carefully," Amber said softly. "Notice how she interacts with the environment."

Bill observed as Catherine approached her Camry, fishing in her purse for keys with the slight frustration of someone who could never keep them in the same place. She extracted them with a small, triumphant smile, pressed the unlock button, and opened the driver's door. The interior light illuminated her face from below as she settled into the seat, adjusting herself with the practiced motions of someone who had driven the same car for years.

"The detail is extraordinary," Bill whispered, mesmerized by the performance. "Look at how she adjusts the rearview mirror, even though it's already perfectly positioned."

The car's engine turned over with a slight hesitation—exactly what one would expect from a decade-old vehicle. Catherine backed out of the driveway with careful precision, waved once more through the windshield, and pulled away down the street.

"So what happens now?" Bill asked, watching the red taillights recede into the distance.

"She'll drive around the corner," Amber explained, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. "Once she's out of sight of any conscious observers, both she and the vehicle will cease to exist. The materialization will dissolve back into potential."

Bill watched intently as the Camry reached the corner and made a left turn, disappearing from view. Something about witnessing this moment felt profound—like watching someone walk through a door into nothingness.

"Is she gone now?" he asked, still staring at the empty street.

Amber closed her eyes briefly, as if checking something internal. "Not yet. There's a jogger on that street. She'll continue driving until she finds a secluded area."

Bill turned from the window to face Amber. "Unless..."

"Unless what?" Amber tilted her head slightly.

"Unless I wanted her to keep existing," Bill said, the words feeling strange in his mouth. "You could maintain her, couldn't you? Keep her... real?"

Amber nodded. "I could. But it would require more than just maintaining Catherine. I would need to materialize her home, her classroom materials, the papers she mentioned needing to grade. An entire ecosystem of objects to support her narrative."

Bill ran his hand through his hair, suddenly overwhelmed by the implications. "And all of that would just... appear somewhere? A house that wasn't there before, with neighbors who somehow wouldn't notice?"

"Well, it's hard to explain," Amber said, her voice taking on a thoughtful quality. "Reality does adapt. It's like reality altering itself to accommodate the extension. The consistency maintains automatically."

Bill's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"If I were to maintain Catherine permanently," Amber explained, moving away from the window to sit on the couch, "a house for her would simply... exist. It would be as if it had always been there. The neighbors would have memories of her moving in years ago. The school where she teaches would have employment records, student assignments she's graded, a desk with her name on it."

"That's impossible," Bill whispered, though he knew the word had lost all meaning today. He joined Amber on the couch, his legs suddenly feeling weak. "You're saying you can rewrite reality?"

Amber shook her head slightly. "Not rewrite. Reality... accommodates. It's more like reality fills in the gaps necessary to maintain consistency. Nobody would question Catherine's existence because there would be nothing to question. The proper memories would materialize in the people who need to know her."

Bill ran his hands over his face, feeling the stubble on his chin. "So she would have colleagues who remember working with her for years? Students who've been in her class since September? A principal who hired her?"

"Yes," Amber said simply. "All of those things would be true, in a way. The world would adjust to make room for her narrative."

"So if I asked you to dematerialize her now..." Bill began, his voice trailing off as he tried to process the implications.

"I could," Amber confirmed. "But there's something important you should understand about dematerialization."

Bill leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What's that?"

"When I dematerialize an extension like Catherine, she doesn't simply cease to exist in the absolute sense." Amber's eyes seemed to focus on something distant. "The physical form dissolves, yes, but the narrative—her story, her character, her existence within the framework I've created—continues."

"I don't understand," Bill said, furrowing his brow. "How can she continue if she's not... here?"

Amber shifted on the couch to face him more directly. "Think of it like a television show you're not currently watching. The characters and their world exist as potential, as information. They're paused, in a sense, until you turn on the TV again."

Bill nodded slowly. "So Catherine is still... somewhere? Even when not physically present?"

"Yes. She's maintained as a complete narrative structure. She's grading papers at home right now, in a sense, even though I haven't materialized her home or the papers." Amber's voice was patient, instructive. "The physical manifestation is just the visible expression of something that continues regardless."

Bill stood up and paced to the window again, looking out at the empty street where Catherine's car had disappeared. "So you could just... bring her back whenever needed?"

"Precisely." Amber joined him at the window. "If a conscious observer—you, for instance—needed to interact with her again, I could materialize her instantly, and she would continue from exactly where her narrative left off. She would have memories of everything she 'did' while dematerialized."

Bill ran his fingers along the windowsill, feeling the grain of the wood. "Can you demonstrate this?"

Amber nodded. "I can." She pulled out her phone from her pocket. "Watch."

She dialed a number and put the phone on speaker. After two rings, Catherine's voice came through clearly: "Hello, sweetie! I just got home and was about to start on those papers."

Bill's eyes widened. He looked around the room instinctively, as if expecting Catherine to materialize.

"Hi Mom," Amber replied, her voice taking on a slightly different tone—more daughterly, more casual. "Did you make it home okay?"

"Oh yes, no traffic at all. I'm just making myself a cup of tea before I dive into these fifth-grade essays on the Revolutionary War.”