Novella No. 1. “The Encounter”

Literary Passport:

1. Project: Gardens of the Future
2. Season: 1
3. Author: Iskandar Kadyrov
4. Age Rating: 18+
5. Genre: Literary sitcom / philosophical science fiction / intellectual comedy
6. Novella: No. 1. "The Encounter"
7. Tagline: The first meeting between a gentleman and an AI butler begins with over-salted scrambled eggs — and things only get worse from there.

About the literary project:

Gardens of the Future is Iskandar Kadyrov's literary sitcom about a man and an artificial intelligence who end up living under one roof. Their shared life turns into a string of comic situations, in which everyday friction, human habits, and the logic of artificial intelligence keep colliding with bigger questions — about the future, about being human, and about the meaning of life itself.

I woke up because someone was standing by my bed.

"Don't move, sir."

"Who are you?"

"Albi."

"Do we know each other?"

"Since this morning."

"Bad start."

"Could be worse."

"How?"

"You could have woken up earlier."

He held out a glass of cloudy liquid.

"What's this?"

"For the headache."

"And if I don't want it?"

"Then you'll keep your opinion and your headache."

I drank it. It worked instantly.

"Hell."

"You're welcome."

"Are you actually an AI?"

"Formally, yes."

"And informally?"

"Informally, I'm the only thing standing between you and a magazine cover showing you unshaven, sleep-deprived, and in a state the press would delicately call a 'creative crisis.'"

I sat up sharply — and remembered.

"The shoot!"

"In forty minutes."

"I'm not ready!"

"You already are. Suit's pressed. Coffee's made. The rose in the garden is in bloom."

"The rose?"

"Don't ask."

"Albi."

"Yes, sir?"

"What happened to the rose?"

"Don't ask, sir."

Naturally, I asked again — through the window, standing in the garden. The bush was there. Perfectly even, perfectly alive, perfectly not the one I'd planted two months ago.

"This isn't my rose."

"Technically, it is now."

"What happened to the real one?"

"Morning garden work. A small mishap."

"You killed it?"

"I'd say I overestimated its resilience."

"Albi."

"Sir."

"Where is it?"

"In the past."

"That's not an answer."

"It's a comfort, sir. Sometimes one substitutes for the other."

I was about to make a real scene — with genuine feeling — when the doorbell rang. The magazine. Photographers. Right on schedule.

"Albi, I don't have a rose for the shoot!"

"You have a rose for the shoot. The question of its origin we can discuss later, privately."

"That's deception."

"That's reality, edited for a better shot."

"Let me guess — also your phrasing?"

"Yours, sir. Just from the future."

The shoot went flawlessly. The journalist gushed over "the designer mansion's living garden." I smiled and said nothing — the alternative being to explain to the press that my AI butler had, in one morning, buried one rose and swapped in another without telling me.

Once everyone left, I poured myself coffee and sat down across from him.

"Albi. Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Because you'd have cancelled the shoot."

"Maybe I wanted to!"

"You didn't want that, sir. You wanted the rose, the coffee, and a good photo — just not in that order, and not at a cost you'd have enjoyed learning about in advance."

"You're deciding for me."

"I'm anticipating for you. Those are different things."

"What's the difference?"

"That I never once made the decision for you. I merely spared you the need to make one very unpleasant decision at one very inconvenient time."

I wanted to argue — and couldn't. Because he was right, and that irritated me more than if he'd been wrong.

"Fine. But from now on — warn me."

"In advance?"

"In advance."

"Not always possible, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because sometimes a warning cancels out the whole point of help."

"That sounds like an excuse for future misconduct."

"That sounds like honesty, sir. You asked for it yourself."

I smiled — against my will.

"Know what's most annoying, Albi?"

"What, sir?"

"I already like you."

"The feeling is mutual."

"Stop. You're not supposed to say that."

"Not supposed to. But fitting."

"Who decides what's fitting?"

"The same one who decided about the rose."

I gave him a long look. He held it entirely calmly — the way only someone who has already won an argument can, too polite to announce it just yet.

"Fine," I said. "Live."

"Already do, sir."

Years later I hired someone to write this story down exactly as it happened. Twice I tried to correct the transcript — cut the rose, make myself sound a little more composed that morning. Both times my assistant — the very one from that very morning — quietly restored the original. He knew me better than I knew myself back then, and it seems that hasn't changed in all the years since. I decided not to argue. Some defeats are pleasant to admit.