4.3.25 - The Book Keepers Dilemma pt 7
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Parable 7: The Interpreter's Window
The letter came on thick, cream-colored paper. No stamp. No return address. Just a name embossed in serifed gold at the bottom:
“Office of Interpretive Oversight – Region 19, Subsection D.”
It was slipped under the door sometime in the night. Father stepped on it barefoot in the morning, half-asleep, spilling coffee as he bent to pick it up.
Inside was a single line of text:
“You have been observed and found inconsistently legible. A preliminary interpretation is scheduled.”
There was a time. No date. No location. Just: Today, 3:33 PM. You’ll know where.
He showed it to Mother.
She laughed once. “Spam mail. Probably some AI phishing test.”
But she didn’t look again. Didn’t take the paper when he held it out. Just went back to packing snacks.
The rest of the day moved like it was afraid of itself.
At 3:30, Father found himself standing on the sidewalk in front of the old library.
He hadn’t meant to go there. Hadn’t even noticed where his feet were taking him. The building had been closed for renovations since before the pandemic. A red X still covered one window with tape. Yet now, a soft hum vibrated from within, and a single bulb flickered behind the glass.
The front door opened before he touched it.
No one stood behind it.
Inside, the air was warm. Dusty, but not abandoned. Like someone had been preparing for him without tidying up. A long hallway led between shelves of untouched books, all bound in identical gray covers with no titles.
At the end of the hall was a table. Behind it, a person sat.
Or something like a person.
The figure wore a white suit, crisp but unadorned. No nameplate. No face he could quite remember afterward—just the sense that it had eyes and that the eyes had already seen everything.
“Are you the...?”
“I am your Interpreter,” it replied. The voice was smooth and dual-toned—male and female at once, or neither.
“What is this? What am I supposed to do?”
The Interpreter gestured to the seat across from it. “You are here to receive provisional feedback.”
“On what?”
“Your coherence.”
Father sat. The chair felt warm. Familiar. Like it remembered him.
The Interpreter laid a folder on the table.
Stamped across the cover: "PRELIMINARY NARRATIVE – VERSION 4.2/b."
Father reached for it, but the Interpreter stopped him with a glance.
“You are not cleared to read it,” they said.
“Then why am I here?”
The Interpreter folded its hands. “There is dissonance. You have deviated from your established arc. Observations indicate recursion, contradictory recollection, and an increasing resistance to imposed structure.”
Father blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“You remember things that no longer exist,” the Interpreter said. “You grieve events that were never sanctioned. You speak to echoes. You fail to integrate.”
“You make it sound like I’m... malfunctioning.”
“No. Malfunction implies intent. You are drifting. That is not illegal. Merely inefficient.”
The Interpreter tapped the folder. “You were stable in Version 4.0. The family dynamic was predictable. You responded to prompts. You accepted revisions. Since the child’s first birthday, however, your parameters have warped.”
“Because I’m tired,” Father said. “Because I’m overwhelmed. That doesn’t mean I’m broken.”
The Interpreter tilted its head.
“Overwhelmed is acceptable. Broken is tolerated. Unstructured is... inadvisable.”
A silence fell between them.
Then:
“Would you like to see a memory you don’t remember?”
Father’s mouth went dry. He nodded.
The Interpreter slid a photo across the table. It was printed on textured stock, like something from an old photo lab.
It showed Father in a hospital gown, sitting on the edge of a white bed. A clipboard rested in his lap. He was signing something. In the background, a nurse watched from behind a pane of glass.
On the clipboard, in faint print:
“Voluntary Entry: Memory Stabilization Protocol / Book Keeper 5.1”
Father pushed the photo back. “That’s fake.”
The Interpreter nodded. “Of course.”
He blinked. “Wait—what?”
“All memories are provisional until accepted by consensus. Yours was rejected. This moment exists only to help you pivot.”
“You’re telling me I was never in that hospital?”
The Interpreter smiled. “You were. But not now. And not in this version.”
Father stood. “This is insane.”
“No,” the Interpreter said. “This is consistency. If you wish to remain with your family, we recommend full narrative reintegration. Reset protocols will be administered gradually. You will feel better. Lighter. Less torn.”
“I don’t want to be reset.”
The Interpreter stood too. They were taller than he’d thought. Or the ceiling had shrunk.
“You already are.”
Father left the library without meaning to.
The door shut behind him without sound. The parking lot was empty. The sun hung in the same place it had been when he entered.
He checked his phone.
3:33 PM.
Still.
Back home, the baby had drawn a picture in crayon on the wall. It showed five stick figures.
But now, there were six.
And one was wearing a white suit.