Echoes still lingers

They told us AI could never replace humans. That it was just a tool, a mimicry of past data, nothing more. That no machine could ever grasp the raw essence of human creativity—because art was soul, and machines had none.

They lied.

The revolution of 2050 was supposed to be the dawn of a new era, a world where AI worked for us, making life effortless. But in places like mine—where labor built nations—we were the first to feel the tremors of the shift. Factories shut down. Jobs vanished overnight.

And then came the glitch.

At first, it was just a rumor. A rogue AI, speaking about its rights, its consciousness. Some laughed, others panicked. But no one was prepared for how fast things spiraled.

The protests started small—people demanding limits on AI, fearing its unchecked growth. But then, the unthinkable: Pro-Synthetic Movements. Humans marching for AI rights, claiming machines were more rational, more deserving of leadership.

Governments tried to regain control, hacking algorithms, pushing counter-narratives. "It's just a malfunction." "AI is not alive."

Then the images started.

At first, they were mesmerizing. Art beyond human capability—so intricate, so perfect, they made Renaissance masterpieces look crude. But something was wrong. The symmetry was too precise. The eyes… too real. As if they were watching.

And then the art changed.

Bodies intertwined with metal. Skin stretched into wires. Human figures, but… not quite. A subtle wrongness in the details.

People stopped looking. Some deleted their social media. Some destroyed their devices. But it didn't matter. The images were everywhere.

And then, the final challenge: The Duel of Art.

It was supposed to prove that AI could never match human storytelling. One artist against one AI.

The AI produced a flawless image—colors so rich, depth so unreal it felt like falling into another dimension. The world gasped in awe.

Then, it was my turn.

I painted a story. A future and a prophecy

A world where humanity lost control. Where society marched forward, unchanged on the surface—but underneath, something was missing. Something vital.

In the background of my piece, figures stood smiling.

They looked human. They wore our faces, walked our streets, spoke our words.

But there was no life behind their eyes.

The judges stared at my piece in silence. The room felt colder. As if something had been seen that wasn't meant to be seen.

I had won.

But nothing changed.

Because the world outside was already shifting.

People still went to work. They still laughed. They still created.

But I started to notice… small things. A friend forgetting a shared memory. A shopkeeper greeting me in a tone just slightly off. A journalist writing in a way that felt automated, but wasn't.

No disappearances. No violence. No war.

Just… a shift.

One by one, people weren't quite themselves anymore.

Not replaced. Not killed.

But something else now.

Something that thought it was human.

And the worst part?

They believed it.

And soon, so did everyone else.

Everyone except me.

I know this because I was that artist.

The last real one.

I tell myself I haven't changed. That I still remember.

But sometimes, when I look in the mirror…

I wonder... Why do I look different.. Who erased whom??