A Painted Promise

In the lead-up to Christmas 2025, three older friends gather, navigating a world of hyper-realistic lights and manufactured cheer, where conversations about the 'hopeful future' often reveal more about the present's absurdities than any promised tomorrow. The glow of engineered festive displays clashes with Agnes's discerning eye, while Douglas embraces the new era with a practiced, almost zealous, optimism.

The winter evening pressed against the old sash windows of Agnes’s sitting room, a heavy, velvet-blue blanket of cold. Inside, the air hummed with the warmth of a dutiful, if slightly dusty, electric fire and the scent of old books and something faintly herbaceous, perhaps lavender. Outside, the town square had become an optical assault, a meticulously choreographed light show pulsing with an almost aggressive cheer, its synthetic glow seeping through the gaps in the drawn curtains. Agnes, perched on a floral armchair worn smooth by decades of quiet use, watched the orchestrated spectacle, a chipped teacup clutched between her arthritic fingers.

Her gaze drifted over the kaleidoscopic torrent of light that consumed the colossal fir tree at the square's centre. It wasn’t just the lights, of course. Everything was… brighter, somehow. Sharper. The digital advertising boards, normally discreet, now flashed with stylised snowstorms and grinning, animated elves. Even the bus shelter had been upgraded with a projected holographic Santa, winking at passers-by with unnerving regularity. It was all a bit much, really. Too much. Like being yelled at by joy.

The doorbell chimed, a polite, almost lyrical two-note sequence, a recent upgrade to Agnes’s otherwise stubbornly analogue Victorian home. She sighed, a soft, almost inaudible exhalation, and rose slowly, her knees protesting. Her back, too. Getting older, she mused, was a series of small, persistent betrayals. Douglas, no doubt, brimming with the seasonal spirit, or at least the government-mandated version of it.

She opened the door to a blast of chilled air that smelled faintly of wet asphalt and frost. Douglas stood on her porch, a ruddy-faced man in his late sixties, clutching a bottle of what looked like artisanal elderflower cordial. His cheeks were bright red from the cold, his white hair a halo of wisps around his beaming face.

“Agnes, my dear! Merry almost-Christmas!” he boomed, his voice carrying just a little too far down the quiet street. He stepped inside, shedding tiny snowflakes onto the worn Persian rug.

“Douglas. You’ll track half of Saskatchewan in here,” Agnes said, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible warmth in her tone. She closed the heavy door, shutting out the biting wind and the holographic Santa’s relentless cheer. “Patricia’s already here, she’s in the sitting room. Made tea.”

Douglas’s eyes widened with a genuine delight that Agnes found both endearing and slightly exhausting. “Oh, lovely! Patricia! Good to see you both.” He made his way to the sitting room, humming a Christmas carol off-key. He was like a well-meaning, slightly over-inflated balloon, Agnes thought, watching him move. Full of hot air, but harmless. Most of the time.

Patricia sat on the sofa opposite Agnes’s armchair, her knitting needles clacking softly, a half-finished scarf draped over her lap. She was a woman of few words, Patricia, but her presence was a comforting, solid weight in the room. Her spectacles were perched on the end of her nose, and her gaze, when she lifted it, was sharp, taking everything in without comment.

“Douglas,” Patricia murmured, a small nod her only greeting. She didn't stop knitting. Agnes thought it a practical hobby, useful for keeping fidgety hands busy and a good defence against overly enthusiastic conversation. Douglas, however, was immune to such subtle deterrents.

“Patricia, still at it, are we?” Douglas said, settling onto the edge of a different armchair, the springs groaning faintly under his weight. “Amazing. So… have you seen the lights this year? Spectacular, aren’t they? Really captures the essence of the season, wouldn’t you say? All thanks to the Future Forward Initiative, of course. Boosted the municipal budget by… what was it? Thirty percent for cultural enhancement.”

Agnes lifted her teacup to her lips. The lukewarm liquid tasted of Earl Grey, bitter and comforting. “Cultural enhancement, or civic distraction?” she muttered under her breath, but Douglas, already launched into his monologue, didn’t hear her.

“They’ve certainly outdone themselves,” Douglas continued, leaning forward, his eyes bright. “The synchronicity! All three hundred thousand individual LED units responding in real-time to the public sentiment index. Imagine that. If the sentiment dips, the blues come out, if it rises, reds and golds. A living, breathing symbol of our collective spirit! Truly magnificent.”

Patricia paused, her needles still. “It’s… bright,” she said, her voice a soft rasp. She returned to her knitting, a new thread of deep forest green woven into the growing length of scarlet.

Agnes snorted, a delicate sound that only she and Patricia seemed to register. Douglas, however, was already halfway through a detailed explanation of the algorithmic process behind the sentiment index, complete with hand gestures that nearly dislodged a small ceramic bird from the mantelpiece. He was a retired data analyst, and his enthusiasm for such things was boundless, often to the detriment of general civility.

“So you see, Agnes, it’s not just about pretty lights. It’s a testament to societal harmony. The government’s managed to, well, *optimise* happiness. Less grumbling, more genuine appreciation. It’s an investment in collective well-being!” Douglas declared, finally pausing for breath, his gaze sweeping over them as if expecting a round of applause.

Agnes took another slow sip of her tea, the rim of the cup cool against her lip. Genuine appreciation. She remembered Christmases from her youth. The lights then were simple. Clunky, painted bulbs, probably unsafe by today’s standards. They flickered. Sometimes they fused. You hung them yourself, untangling miles of wire that always seemed to tie themselves into impossible knots. And the appreciation was… messier. Less uniform. More real, perhaps, because it wasn't measured or calibrated.

“Optimising happiness sounds rather… efficient,” Agnes finally offered, her voice dry. “Does it involve a quarterly report? Are we hitting our joy targets?”

Douglas chuckled, missing the barbed edge entirely. “Ah, Agnes, always the wit! But yes, in a way! The Public Sentiment Monitor provides real-time data, accessible via the Civic Transparency Portal. It’s all about accountability, you see. Ensuring everyone feels heard, understood, and crucially, uplifted.” He beamed, clearly proud of the system. Douglas had always been a systems man. He'd even tried to 'optimise' Agnes's filing system once. It had resulted in a week-long hunt for her tax returns.

“Uplifted,” Patricia echoed, her needles still. She looked up, her gaze steady, not at Douglas, but at the window, where the digital Santa outside winked again. “Even if you don’t feel it?”

Douglas waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense, Patricia! The system detects underlying psychological trends. Sometimes, we *think* we’re not feeling happy, but the aggregate data suggests otherwise! It nudges us towards what’s empirically beneficial. Think of it as… curated gratitude.”

Agnes choked on her tea, a small, wet cough escaping her lips. Curated gratitude. She wiped her mouth with a handkerchief. “So, if I’m feeling a bit peckish, but the data says I’ve just consumed optimal nutrients, I simply… cease to feel peckish? Is that it? My stomach doesn’t get a say?”

“Well, it’s not quite that simplistic, Agnes,” Douglas said, a slight frown creasing his brow. “There are nuances. Individual feedback loops. But the overall goal is societal harmony, minimal dissent. We’ve come so far since the… well, since the disruptions of the mid-2020s. Remember the Great Toilet Paper Scarcity of ’23? The Bread Riots of ’24? These initiatives ensure stability.” He shivered, a genuine tremor, recalling those chaotic times.

Agnes did remember. The news feeds, the panic, the ugly scramble for basic provisions. It had been grim. And yes, the current state of affairs, with its meticulously managed happiness and curated gratitude, was certainly *stable*. But it felt like a stability bought at a curious price, a quiet trade of messy authenticity for polished order. Like a perfectly preserved specimen under glass, beautiful but lifeless.

“I suppose,” she conceded, pouring herself more tea. Her hand trembled slightly, betraying a thought she hadn’t voiced: that a part of her missed the raw, unpredictable churn of life, even its indignities. The fear had been real, but so had the small, unexpected kindnesses, the genuine connections formed in shared uncertainty.

Patricia, her needles now flying again, spoke without looking up. “My neighbour, Old Mr. Hemlock, got a notice. His gratitude index was low. They sent him a… facilitator. For ‘emotional recalibration’.”

Douglas nodded, completely unperturbed. “Yes, standard procedure. Very effective, I hear. Sometimes people just need a gentle reminder of all the good things. The abundance, the safety, the connectivity. It’s a gift, really, this future we’ve built.” He paused, then leaned back with a sigh of contentment, the armchair springs groaning once more. “And these lights, just outside. A constant, dazzling reminder.”

Agnes looked at Patricia, who met her gaze briefly before returning to her knitting. There was a flicker in Patricia's eyes, a knowingness that only years of shared observation could foster. A thin, dark green stripe was now appearing in the scarf, a stark contrast to the dominant scarlet.

---

The afternoon waned, giving way to a full, inky darkness outside, broken only by the aggressive glow of the town square’s display. Douglas had moved onto discussing the recent advancements in 'Sustainable Thought Farming', a topic that involved vertical data centres and the efficient recycling of redundant ideas. Agnes listened, interjecting occasionally with a pointed question, while Patricia continued her rhythmic clacking, the scarf growing longer, warmer, more real than any of Douglas’s lofty pronouncements.

Agnes found herself watching the play of light on the ceiling, the shifting reds and golds and blues bleeding in through the curtains. It created dancing shadows in the corners of her familiar room, making the familiar seem momentarily strange. The heavy oak bookcase, usually a bastion of quiet permanence, appeared to ripple, its spines momentarily dissolving into streaks of vibrant colour.

Douglas, meanwhile, was talking about how the municipal council had replaced all park benches with 'Optimised Seating Units' that also functioned as public information kiosks, offering curated news and motivational affirmations. “Think of it, Agnes! No more loitering, just productive engagement with civic data! It’s brilliant!”

“And if one simply wants to sit?” Agnes asked, a small, almost desperate question that hung in the air, briefly cutting through Douglas’s flow. “Just sit, and watch the squirrels, and feel the cold on your face?”

Douglas blinked, as if considering an alien concept. “Well, you can, of course! But the unit will offer relevant, uplifting information. Perhaps facts about the local squirrel population. Or historical data on park usage. It’s about maximising every moment, dear Agnes. No wasted potential.”

Patricia set her knitting down, finally. Her hands, gnarled with age, rested on her lap. “Maximising,” she said, her voice quiet. “Everything must be maximised now.” Her eyes, though, were fixed on Agnes, a question in their depths.

Agnes felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest, not physical, but something deeper. It was a longing for the un-maximised, the inefficient, the beautifully useless. For quiet, for aimless staring. For a moment, she was back in a memory, a Christmas Eve from decades past, before the 'disruptions', before the 'initiatives'. She was a young woman, bundled in a heavy wool coat, standing in this very square, then lit with far fewer, far simpler lights. The air had smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth. A child had cried nearby, genuinely, loudly, and a parent had hushed them with a real, tired tenderness. It hadn't been 'optimised', but it had been real.

“Do you ever miss the quiet, Douglas?” Agnes asked, her voice softer than intended, almost a plea. “The real quiet, before the constant hum of data, before every moment had a purpose prescribed for it?”

Douglas looked genuinely puzzled. “Quiet? Why, Agnes, we have the ‘Mindful Silence Protocols’ now! Dedicated zones for contemplative thought, free from digital interference. It’s all been considered. It’s a better quiet, really. More structured. More… beneficial.” He smiled, genuinely, unblinkingly.

Patricia picked up her knitting again, the green thread a vivid counterpoint to the scarlet. “A quiet with a timer,” she murmured, more to herself than to them. “And a suggestion engine.”

Agnes felt a chill despite the electric fire, a coldness that had nothing to do with the winter outside. The hopeful future Douglas spoke of, the one painted in brilliant, pixelated light, felt less like a promise and more like a carefully constructed, gilded cage. It was beautiful, yes. But the bars were invisible, woven from algorithms and well-intentioned directives.

---

As the evening drew to a close, Douglas, after finishing his cordial and promising to email them both a link to a fascinating new documentary on 'Algorithmic Empathy,' finally took his leave. The sudden silence after his departure felt vast, almost deafening, broken only by the soft tick of Agnes's antique grandfather clock and the distant, rhythmic throb of the town square's light show.

Patricia stayed for a while longer, her knitting now neatly folded beside her. She didn’t speak, just sat, occasionally glancing at Agnes, then at the window. The lights outside pulsed, bright and indifferent. They talked about nothing in particular, the way old friends do, their conversation a comfortable, winding path of half-finished sentences and shared glances. The unspoken hung in the air, a heavier presence than any cheerful declaration.

Agnes eventually rose, walking to the window. She parted the curtains fully, revealing the full, glorious, overwhelming spectacle of the town square. The massive Christmas tree pulsed with red and gold, then shifted to blues and silvers, responding to the unseen 'sentiment index'. It was undeniably stunning, a triumph of engineering and design. But it felt… hollow. Like a perfectly rendered image without depth. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, feeling the bite of the cold through the pane.

Patricia joined her, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing out. The air in the room was warm, but a subtle, almost imperceptible static seemed to cling to the curtains, a faint, metallic scent that Agnes couldn't quite place. Not ozone, but something manufactured, residual. A ghost of the machine.

“They’ve done a good job,” Patricia said, her voice barely a whisper, a strange inflection in her tone that Agnes couldn’t decipher. Was it admiration? Resignation? “Makes you feel… something.”

Agnes considered this. Yes, it made you feel something. Awe, perhaps. A vague, unsettling unease. A wistful longing for a simpler, less-optimised past. But was it hope? The kind of hope that truly warmed you from the inside out, the kind that was born from uncertainty and struggle, not from a glowing dashboard of collective sentiment? She didn’t know.

Agnes looked from Douglas’s earnest, smiling face back to the window, where the pixelated star atop the main tree shimmered, a perfect, unchanging beacon against the real, indifferent winter sky. She wondered what kind of future could truly grow beneath such unblinking, manufactured light.