Eleanor arranged her storybooks on the small wooden table, her arthritic fingers tracing the worn covers she’d carried to the local library every Wednesday for twenty-three years. The familiar room felt much colder today.
“We’re starting with ‘The Cloud Sailor’ since it’s Amy’s birthday,” she announced to the gathered children. Some weren’t listening, which was normal, but many were also staring at the gleaming white booth being installed in her corner.
“StoryGenius: Interactive AI Narrative Experience” scrolled across its digital display in playful, animated letters. Eleanor had protested when the library manager showed her the machine. “Kids need human connection in storytelling. They need to see my expressions, hear my voice change, feel the room respond together.”
“The booth adapts to each child’s emotional state,” the manager had explained. “It generates personalised stories based on their interests, reading level, and psychological needs. And it’s available twenty-four hours a day.” He didn’t really get it, so she didn’t press the matter.
Eleanor watched two technicians calibrating the booth’s sensors. One caught her gaze and quickly looked away.
“Miss Ellie,” whispered Kira, a shy six-year-old, “can you do the dragon voice for the scary bit?” Eleanor smiled and began reading, her voice transforming as it had many times before. Halfway through, three children wandered off to watch the gawk at the booth.
“It can make YOU a character in the story!” she overheard a technician telling them.
After the session, the manager approached with a plastic name badge. “We’re offering you a casual position as booth monitor for two hours every Saturday. Just to supervise while the littlies use it…” Eleanor declined, packing her books away for the final time.
Later, as she passed by the library and paused at the window she watched a child sitting alone in the booth, bathed in blue light, headphones on, staring at a screen where animated characters performed perfectly calculated emotional beats designed to trigger optimal neurological response. No laughter echoed through the room. No collective gasps. No hands reaching out to touch the page or interrupt with questions. Just silent, isolated consumption of content tailored to each individual’s metrics.
Eleanor turned away. Twenty-three years of storytelling. Four decades before that of collecting yarns, perfecting voices, learning when to pause for effect. All now obsolete against an algorithm trained on millions of stories it had never truly experienced, never felt, never loved.
Image by Lubos Houska from Pixabay