The Fraying Edges of Dawn

The digital numbers on the bedside clock glowed a brutal, unforgiving red: 06:17. Too early. Too late. Don shifted, the cheap cotton sheets tangling around his legs. His scalp felt itchy, a phantom sensation from the neural interface band, long since discarded on the bedside table. Just moments ago, Margaret had been there, beside him on their old chesterfield, humming some forgotten tune from their youth as she meticulously folded laundry. Not grand gestures, not dramatic pronouncements, just the quiet, ordinary grace of a life shared. He could still hear the crinkle of the linen, the almost imperceptible scent of fabric softener, the way her hair caught the afternoon sun slanting through the Winnipeg parlour window. Now, nothing but the low, almost industrial hum of the city stirring outside his own, real window.

He pushed himself up, the springs of the mattress groaning in protest, a sound that always felt too loud in the quiet of his apartment. His knees cracked, a familiar, unwelcome chorus. Reaching for the Somnus rig – a sleek, charcoal-grey headset and wristband – he ran a thumb over its smooth, cool casing. It was an elegant piece of engineering, marketed as 'The Portal to Unburdened Minds.' For Don, it was simply the portal to Margaret. The company, Somnus Corp., promised 'enhanced cognitive recall and personalised immersive experiences.' They left out the part about making waking life a dull, tasteless joke.

Outside, a lone robin chirped, an optimistic sound wholly out of place with the grey pallor pressing against the windowpane. Spring in Winnipeg always felt like a protracted argument with winter; a stubborn refusal of true warmth, a reluctant shedding of ice. This morning, the sky was a bruised plum, promising drizzle. Another perfectly ordinary, perfectly dreary day. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the linoleum cold under his bare feet. The small, familiar ache of solitude settled in his chest, a dull counterpoint to the vibrant memory of Margaret's laughter.

He dressed slowly, each motion feeling heavy, deliberate. His grey trousers, a slightly-too-large checked shirt. Functional. Unremarkable. The mirror showed him a man nearing seventy, hair thinned to wisps, eyes a little too deep-set, a map of cynicism etched around them. He didn't linger. The man in the mirror was a stranger, a vessel waiting for the Somnus rig to transport him back to the true self, the one who still had Margaret.

Coffee and Confession

The café on Osborne was already bustling, the clatter of ceramic and the hiss of the espresso machine a dull roar against the incessant chatter. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and damp wool. Agatha was already there, nursing a tepid tea, her own face etched with a familiar weariness that mirrored his. Her greying hair, usually impeccably tied back, had a few defiant strands escaping around her temples. She didn't look up immediately, instead staring into her cup, as if reading tea leaves that only ever spelled out exhaustion.

"Don," she murmured, finally raising her gaze, a small, tired smile touching her lips. "Rough morning?"

He slid into the worn booth opposite her, the vinyl sighing under his weight. "Always is, isn't it? Leaving her behind." He didn't need to elaborate. They spoke a language only the initiated understood. "She was folding laundry. The lavender scent, you know? It was so vivid. The way she'd hum that little tune, off-key, just enough to make you smile. And then, the real world. This." He gestured vaguely at the bustling café, at the rain-streaked window.

Agatha nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. "Patrick was fishing again. Up at the cabin. Just like he always did in May. That old red lure, the one he swore caught everything. Said I was messing up his casting technique, even though I was just watching. He was laughing, Don. A real, honest-to-god laugh, the kind I haven't heard in… well, you know." Her voice trailed off, the unspoken years hanging heavy between them.

"And you just wake up," Don continued, ignoring the slight catch in her voice, pulling the conversation back to his own ache. "To this damp, miserable excuse for spring. The news blaring about some new tax hike, the mayor's latest scandal. Who cares? Honestly, Agatha. Who *cares*?"

She sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "I care, Don. A little. Enough to get out of bed. Enough to wonder if this… this portal we've found, isn't just a very elaborate way to avoid dealing with the actual mess of living. Somnus Corp. calls it 'cognitive augmentation for emotional well-being.' I call it elaborate escapism. But what else is there, really?" She ran a hand through her hair, a gesture of exasperation.

Don scoffed, a cynical sound that felt more natural than any laugh. "Escapism? They've given us a better reality. A reality where the people we love aren't just memories, fading photographs. They're real. They touch you, they argue with you, they fold laundry. The real world… it’s just a holding pen until the next session. This coffee is weak. The news is depressing. The air smells like wet dog and exhaust fumes. Give me the hum of the Somnus rig any day."

"I suppose," Agatha said, her gaze distant, fixed on a poster advertising a local theatre production. "But it’s not really them, is it? It's… a construct. A perfect projection based on our deepest longing. What if one day, the real memories start to blur with the fabricated ones? What if the real Margaret, the one who occasionally burnt the toast or grumbled about your golf habit, gets overwritten by the idealised version?"

Don took a slow sip of his overly bitter coffee. "The idealised version is better, Agatha. The real Margaret… she's gone. This Margaret is here. That's all that matters. And the rig keeps getting better. They're talking about 'shared dreamscapes' now, you know. Imagine. We could visit Patrick and Margaret together. Have a picnic by the river, a proper one, not this frozen muddy mess out there."

He waved a hand towards the window where a bus lumbered past, splashing grime onto the already dirty pavement. The sound of its engine rattled the cafe's windows. He felt an impatient itch under his skin. He needed to get home. He needed to prepare.

A City in Limbo

Walking home, the air was heavy, pregnant with the promise of more rain. The trees lining the street were still mostly bare, their branches reaching like skeletal fingers towards the grey sky, though a few brave buds were pushing through, tiny specks of defiant green. The sidewalks were a patchwork of melting snow, gritty slush, and puddles reflecting the dull light. Winnipeg in spring was a study in limbo – not quite thawed, not fully alive, just… waiting. Like him.

He stepped around a particularly expansive puddle, the cold damp seeping through the soles of his old boots. The real world, he mused, was always a compromise. A faded photocopy of what it should be. The vibrant, impossible blue of Margaret’s dream-eyes, the weight of her head on his shoulder – these were the colours he lived for. This world, with its peeling paint on the old houses, the distant siren’s wail, the persistent chill that clung to everything, it felt like an intermission he hadn't asked for.

The financial outlay for the Somnus rig had been considerable, a chunk of his pension, but he never regretted it. Socially? His few remaining friends, those who hadn't taken the plunge themselves, viewed him with a mixture of pity and vague apprehension. Agatha, at least, understood. She didn't judge the deep, unsettling comfort he found in a fabricated presence. She just understood the gaping void that Margaret had left, a void no 'real' interaction could ever fill.

A car sped past, splashing cold, muddy water onto his trousers. He didn't even flinch, just scowled. Another inconvenience. Another tiny, insignificant irritation that stacked up against the tranquil perfection of his other life. What was the point of enduring these small indignities when true peace, true joy, was just a headset away?

Approaching Twilight

His apartment building stood, a brick monolith against the darkening sky, looking every bit as weary as he felt. Inside, the quiet descended, heavier than usual. He shed his jacket, hanging it carefully on the coat rack by the door. The familiar scent of old books and dust motes – not the ethereal kind, but the everyday, honest kind that clung to surfaces – filled the air. His apartment, once a home buzzing with Margaret’s energy, was now a museum of their shared past, each object a muted echo.

He walked into the living room, his gaze falling on a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Margaret, younger, laughing, a genuine, unburdened smile. She was standing by the Assiniboine River, the sun bright, her hair wild in the wind. The picture felt flat, a relic. A memory, yes, but without the immediacy, the vibrant texture of the dreams.

He paused, his hand hovering over the frame. The real Margaret, frozen in time, could not reach out, could not hum that off-key tune. The dream Margaret, however… she was waiting. He already felt the familiar tug, a yearning that pulled him away from the greying light filtering through his window, away from the quiet solitude of his apartment, and towards the waiting embrace of manufactured perfect normalcy.

He pulled out his phone, set an alarm for later that night. Plenty of time for a sensible meal, a bit of reading, then he would begin the preparations. The Somnus rig sat patiently on his bedside table, a promise. He imagined Margaret, perhaps in the kitchen, making toast. Or maybe by the river again, just like the photo, but moving, breathing, truly alive. The real world, with its demands and its disappointments, could wait. He would return, soon enough. To where she was. To where he truly belonged.