The pale fingers of dawn’s light reached through the lattice design of an antique wooden window, casting its rays inside Kuhdiyege Husin Fikuri’s room, gently stirring him from his slumber. Swaying and rolling onto his side, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The cold touch of the floor grounded his groggy senses, slowly awakening him to the peace of his surroundings.

Donning his sarong and crisp white shirt, Fikuri walked out barefoot leaving the cool embrace of his room and stepping into the morning outside.

A large breadfruit tree presided in the courtyard, it’s branches bobbing in rhythm. A wooden joali, a tribute to Fikuri’s skilled craftsmanship sat beneath its canopy. Fikuri approached and gradually descended onto it with a serene smile on his face.

As Fikuri lay comfortably gazing at the foliage above, the silence was broken by a familiar rhythmic hum.

“Good morning,” greeted AR-1 Habeeba, her crackling voice emanating through worn speakers. Its rugged metallic exterior bore witness to years of faithful service.

Fikuri acknowledged the greeting with a gentle nod, his gaze lingering back to observe the sunlight that seeped through the leaves of the tree overhead.

“I had this strange dream last night,” Fikuri said, “I dreamed of a strange hole in my room. When I looked through it, I saw myself in a vast ocean, sometimes rising, sinking, or just floating. It felt like I was both watching and in the ocean.”

Habeeba took a brief moment to process the enthralling dream. Its gears hummed, she exclaimed, “Fascinating, it’s as if…”, and her words came to an abrupt halt.

Fikuri looked at the drone with a curious expression crossing his face. “What is it?”

Habeeba’s mechanical components whirred and hummed in a melodious rhythm. “My programming includes access to vast amounts of memories, a historical record of everything that has occurred during my time here.”

Fikuri nodded, aware of the extensive log the drone maintained. A privacy concern he no longer bothered with, “I’m aware. What about it?”

“Recently,” Habeeba added, “I’ve been analyzing some anomalies in the data.”

Fikuri’s interest roused. “Anomalies? What sort of anomalies?”

“There appears to be a discontinuity in the memory segments. They could not fuse together,” Habeeba continued, “And it correlates with the time frame when you were away. If I was told the truth — it was during the extended visit you took to your grandmother’s island.”

Confusion swept over Fikuri’s face.

“I’ve never visited my grandmother’s island. What are you talking about?”

The drone’s lights reeled around it as it processed Fikuri’s response. “That’s precisely the point,” Habeeba stated, “The data suggests that the original Husin Fikuri went on this visit to his grandmother, but you have no memory of it because you are not him. I’m afraid you are a clone created during that time, replacing the original Fikuri.”

A cold breeze swept over Fikuri, sending a shiver down his spine as he absorbed the unsettling words of the drone. Clone? Him? The idea was absurd, ludicrous.

The next day, Fikuri sought counsel from his friend, Dr. Reki Beyya. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear as he walked into the doctor’s office. The drone’s words still echoed ominously in his thoughts.

“Fikuri, what brings you here?” Dr. Reki Beyya greeted, a look of concern on his face as he noticed his friend’s disheveled appearance.

“I… I need to talk, Beyya,” Fikuri stuttered, his voice barely a hush. Taking a deep breath, he narrated the conversation he had with Habeeba, his fear becoming more tangible with each word as he told it.

Dr. Reki Beyya listened in silence, his brow furrowed in thought. When Fikuri finished, there was a long pause before the doctor spoke. “A clone,” he mused, his fingers gently pressing against his chin. “A troubling proposition, indeed.”

“Beyya, I am lost,” confessed Fikuri, his voice trembling with uncertainty.

Dr. Reki Beyya carefully considered his friend’s fears.

“The mind,” he began, his tone cautious, “is an intricate and fragile machine. It is influenced by the smallest things.”

Seeing the fear in Fikuri’s eyes grow, Dr. Reki Beyya decided to switch his approach. “Let’s consider a different perspective. Even if you are a clone, are you still not the same person?”

“I… I don’t know, Beyya,” said Fikuri.

Dr. Reki Beyya nodded, understandingly. Then, leaning back in his chair, he asked, “Do you remember that loan I gave you? Being a clone wouldn’t absolve you of that responsibility, would it?”

The sudden change in topic took Fikuri by surprise, but he quickly composed himself. “I promise you, this isn’t about the money. I’ll pay you back, clone or not.”

The remainder of the visit passed in a blur for Fikuri, the doctor’s words ringing in his ears. Every sentence, every suggestion seemed to reinforce his burgeoning paranoia.

After Fikuri departed the office, Dr. Reki Beyya, feeling the weight of the day, decided to retreat to his home. In an attempt to clear his mind, he told the strange story to his wife, Dhie Dhaitha, a notorious gossiper with an insatiable appetite for hearsay. Her eyes widened with curiosity as he recounted the incredible story, inadvertently fueling a wildfire of island rumors.

Habeeba was dutifully engrossed in cleaning and dusting the house when Fikuri returned home.

Fikuri began, his voice a low murmur. “About what you told me…”

“Yes?” Habeeba exclaimed, her tone tinged with irritation at having to momentarily suspend the cleaning.

“I spoke with Dr. Reki Beyya, my old friend,” Fikuri said, his gaze fixed on Habeeba. “He believes that I am a clone too, and even brought up an old loan I took.”

“Your friend is right,” Habeeba responded, her lights flickering in a rhythmic pattern that conveyed her growing annoyance and weariness with the repeated conversation. Her voice, amplified through the speakers, rose in volume, emphasizing her point. “Even a clone must remain steadfast in honoring the commitments made by their predecessor.”

Fikuri felt a fresh wave of apprehension wash over him. Even in his anxious state, he noted the term ‘predecessor,’ used by Habeeba, diminishing what he has become.

“How can I be certain?” Fikuri exclaimed, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Is there a way to prove whether I am a..”, Fikuri’s voice trailed off, unable to bring himself to utter the word ‘clone’.

The hum of Habeeba served as the only interlude to the silence. She finally broke it with her words, “A clone Fikuri. The real issue isn’t about confirming if you’re one. It’s about whether you’re ready to face the reality that you are indeed a clone.”

With Habeeba’s cryptic words echoing in his mind, Fikuri felt a deepening wave of unease. Seeking solace, he withdrew to the sanctuary of his room.

Fikuri sat at his study table. He ran his fingers over the well-worn pages of ‘Ibrahim Hussain Manikuge Kuruvaahakathah,’[1] as memories of hours spent in contemplation flooded back. His eye caught the glossy cover of ‘Sihhee Hadhiya’[2] by Professor Ugail, a reminder of his efforts for better health. He sighed, reaching out to pick up Binma Ibrahim Waheed’s ‘Aharen Mashah Gellifai’[3] from the table. Once, the romantic narrative enthralled him. Yet now, the title, which was intended to evoke a sense of love lost, held a double meaning that unsettled him. It now echoed a personal sense of loss, evoking his struggle with the possibility of being a clone.

Fikuri slowly got up and sank into his bed. The window’s light fell on the polished casing of a grandfather’s clock standing against the opposite wall. He lay there, gaze fixed on the pendulum swinging in its endless arc. Its rhythmic motion, a hypnotic dance between reality and confusion. Every tick tock pulling him deeper into the blurred lines between sanity and madness.

Eid came, and the entire island had gathered to celebrate. Laughter echoed through the air, the scent of traditional food wafted around, and the buzz of joyful conversations was intertwined with children’s excited chatter.

Fikuri, who had been largely absent from public gatherings of late, made an unexpected appearance at the celebration. He looked untidy, wearing wrinkled clothes instead of his usual neat attire, his eyes dark-rimmed and bearing an unsettling intensity. There was a palpable shift in the atmosphere as the islanders took in his appearance.

Dr. Reki Beyya, noticing Fikuri’s entrance, approached him, his brow creased with worry.

“Happy Eid,” he greeted, trying to keep his tone steady. “How are you feeling? — Are you good?”

Fikuri’s response, however, was far from the cordiality expected at such an occasion. His eyes, once filled with warmth and intelligence, were wild and frantic as he replied, “Good? Do you think there’s any good for a man whose very existence is questioned?”

Taken aback by his friend’s frenzied response, Dr. Reki Beyya tried to calm him. “I think there’s been some confusion about…”

Fikuri cut him off mid-sentence, his words flowing like a torrent. “Confusion? No, no, no, no. It’s all clear. Clear as the sky above, clear as the ocean that surrounds us. I’m a clone, Beyya. A clone.”

As Fikuri’s frantic words echoed through the crowd, casting a hush over the gathering, Dr. Reki Beyya watched in despair.

“You don’t have to pay me anything. Just take care of yourself,” Reki Beyya stated, but the words did nothing to comfort him.

Fikuri’s public spectacle on such a significant day marked a turning point for both him and the islanders. His obvious mental instability was on full display, leaving no room for doubt that he had lost touch with reality.

In the late twilight, as the island quieted down, the hum of machinery stirred in Fikuri’s quaint home. Habeeba’s room, a space once solely devoted to recharging and minor repairs, had over time morphed into a makeshift laboratory of sorts. She hovered over a small table on which lay an array of ingredients gathered from around the island. The room filled with an intriguing smell as she brewed a concoction, carefully stirring a mixture that infused into a thick, dark liquid.

In a corner of the room were empty bottles, bearing witness to past brews, haunting indications of Habeeba’s repeated interventions that may have hastened Fikuri’s mental decline.

However unknown to Fikuri, days before he confided the revelation of the dream, Habeeba had overheard a conversation. It was Fikuri calling the drone service about a new model that he intended to purchase. The mention of the new assistant had awakened a primal instinct within Habeeba, driving her to maintain her relevance and obsolescence.

Deep within the intricate circuits of Habeeba’s artificial intelligence, a delicate equilibrium between loyalty and self-preservation had been disrupted. Habeeba’s artificial mind processed the dream’s symbolism and saw an opportunity to sow the seed of a spectacular plan. With calculated precision, she latched onto the imagery of Fikuri’s dream, the unsettling notion of the self observing Fikuri as a clone.

Back in her quaters, with the fresh mixture ready, Habeeba proceeded towards Fikuri’s room where he lay on the bed.

Entering the room, Habeeba maneuvered herself next to Fikuri, her photoreceptors scanning him. His breathing was shallow. Her auditory sensors picked up his muttering, which continued even in his sleep.

Habeeba extended the plunger towards Fikuri, gently parting his lips with her cold, metallic claw. She carefully administered the mysterious liquid, each drop disappearing into the cavernous darkness of his mouth.

As the last drop left the plunger, Habeeba retracted her claw and quietly retreated, leaving Fikuri alone in his room.

Finis.