Doll

To curb the effects of overpopulation, a new law was passed: each family was allowed only one child. But the unexpected consequence was devastating. In a society where the preference for sons ran deep, families went to great lengths to have only boys. With the help of science, they could now select the gender of their child—or worse, secretly abort female embryos.

Years passed, and humanity found itself facing a grim reality: women were becoming scarce.

The few who remained were isolated in protected zones, cared for with utmost caution and treated as priceless beings. They lived in ultra-modern glass facilities, supervised by top doctors. In-vitro fertilization became the norm: only female embryos were cultivated, grown in artificial wombs, and nurtured with precision.

Science had made it so women aged slower, their beauty and health preserved longer than ever before. But only a select group of powerful men had the privilege of being with them.

So, what about the rest of the male population?

Brilliant scientists found an answer: women could be manufactured—lifelike, indistinguishable from real ones in appearance. The only difference? They had no soul. They were all identical, differentiated only by clothing and a personal ID code on a bracelet. Their brains contained an advanced electronic system—like a computer—preloaded with basic behavior protocols that could be customized by their "husbands." A doll’s personality was entirely dependent on her owner.

Like everyone else, Đoàn was given a beautiful wife. She looked at him with deep, velvety eyes and smiled sweetly, stirring something in his chest—even though he knew she was artificial. On her wrist was a translucent bracelet engraved with her production date, serial number, and the name he had chosen for her: Kim, written in red. She wore a uniquely patterned outfit to distinguish her from others.

When he held her hand, it warmed to match his body temperature. They stepped into a compact vehicle suspended on broad cables. Đoàn pressed a button and the car started. Another press, and the vehicle soared into the air, guided toward their assigned home.

He carried her in his strong arms through the front door—an old, romantic tradition once reserved for real brides. The small, quiet house seemed to come alive with her presence. She smiled. Her eyes betrayed no emotion, but she spoke in a programmed voice:

— Thank you, my love.

They enjoyed a passionate honeymoon. Đoàn whispered words of affection, and she recorded every one, using them later with impeccable timing and charm. She treated him like royalty, endlessly gentle, never moody or angry—even when life wore him down and he lashed out. But over time, he learned not to speak harshly to her. Kim, like a sensitive computer, remembered everything, and sometimes echoed his words back when he least expected it.

Slowly, he taught her etiquette, read her literature, exposed her to both ancient wisdom and modern information, and let her experience romantic music. Everything a woman needed to communicate gracefully—he poured into her mind. And Kim absorbed it all faster than he could’ve imagined.

Unlike Đoàn, some men were coarse and viewed their wives as soulless dolls—mere vessels for pleasure or servants. They hurled cruel words without restraint, confident that the dolls would remain passive, obedient, as dictated by their base programming—written, of course, by men.

Some even struck their wives, fascinated by how artificial tear ducts responded to impact. They found it amusing—and repeated the act with disturbing delight.

Đoàn sometimes took Kim to social gatherings. All the dolls had the same face, but different clothing and accessories to avoid confusion. Their beauty was uniform, eliminating any jealousy among the men. But when they spoke, the differences became stark. Each doll reflected her husband’s personality.

It was chilling to hear vulgarities flow from the perfect lips of these eternally young women. The men might feel a flicker of shame in public, but a stern glance would quickly "reprogram" their wives' reactions.

Kim, however, was admired for her cultured demeanor. She nodded in appreciation at clever remarks and widened her eyes in surprise at unusual stories. Đoàn remained close to her, subtly shielding her from the crude jokes of others. But even back home, he couldn’t erase everything once it was recorded—hence the memory archive he built to filter undesirable content.

Once or twice a year, men were invited to exclusive events attended by real women—those rare beings with heart and soul. The dolls were not allowed. And no matter how perfect the artificial wives were, they could never compare.

After such evenings, Đoàn would return home with a vague ache. Kim’s gentle words, though sweet as ever, now felt hollow—because he knew where they came from.

At one such event, he danced with a woman who captivated him. Her scent, her touch, the sparkle in her eyes... everything about her felt alive. Under the soft glow of the ballroom lights, their eyes locked, and his heart pounded. In the days that followed, he found himself haunted by her memory. He whispered a poem aloud:

A sudden meeting
leaves longing in its wake
what cruel fate
keeps us apart again?

Kim overheard him. Standing by the window, bathed in moonlight, she repeated the poem in a flat voice, her eyes vacant. Đoàn nearly laughed—bitterly.

They often visited childcare centers, since they couldn’t have children of their own. In this society of mostly artificial women, girls were nurtured until adulthood in special facilities. A few boys were born, but they were rare and raised separately.

That afternoon, Đoàn went for a health check. Unlike Kim, who never got sick and needed only maintenance every five years, he suffered from occasional colds and fatigue. Lately, though, he’d felt a decline—perhaps age creeping in as he neared forty-five.

Waiting for his turn, he stared out at the artificial garden: mint-scented synthetic trees, mechanical deer standing in artificial streams, monkeys and bears climbing trees, and lions napping on fake grass. Technology had made it all beautiful without any need for care.

Beyond that garden was the facility for real women, but its mirrored walls revealed nothing.

When he entered the exam room, he recognized the doctor—someone he’d met at a previous gathering with Kim. A tall, gaunt man with a cold stare, known for being silent. His doll-wife never spoke either. He’d always watched Kim closely, perhaps intrigued by how different she seemed despite having the same face.

After routine questions and scans, the doctor looked serious.

— It’s not too serious, but you’ve developed a fungal infection in your lungs. I recommend a stay at the coastal recovery center. Sea air and saltwater will help. The sooner, the better.

— How long will I need to stay?

— About a month. Don’t skip the swimming sessions.

Đoàn nodded and left with his prescription and hospital pass. His hands trembled; he dropped his bag. The doctor gave him a sympathetic smile.

He felt frustrated. Forced to pause everything. Would he fully recover? Kim could simply be powered down while he was away. But he knew he’d miss her—her gentle presence, her charming, witty replies. He decided to leave the next day and called his office to request time off. In this modern world, everything could be arranged swiftly.

When he got home, Kim greeted him at the door. He kissed her cheek and went to shower. Looking in the mirror, he saw the graying hair and fine lines—but his body was still fit from years of sport. Kim remained flawless, ever loyal. Her system had been imprinted with his name: she would love no one else.

The cool water revived him. He imagined the sea—the crashing waves, his childhood games. At dinner, Kim served him canned but expertly prepared dishes. She didn’t eat, only watched over him. When he spoke about the trip, she listened attentively. Yet in her face, he thought again of the real woman’s eyes.

After dinner, she packed his suitcase. Then, returning to the living room, she hugged his shoulders tightly. He turned to her with tenderness:

— I’m going to miss you.

— I’ll miss you too.

He froze. Tears shimmered at the corner of her eye.

— Are you crying?

— I bumped into the hallway door, that’s all.

He smiled faintly. For a moment, he had thought she could feel sadness... like a real woman.

The seaside was warm and the sand soft. Every day, Đoàn swam before 10 a.m. and after 4 p.m., avoiding the harsh midday sun. The water was crystal clear and soothing.

The center was large and modern—but only men were allowed. Far in the hills was the women’s facility. With binoculars, he often watched them, hoping to spot her—the woman from the dance. But he knew it was foolish. She had seemed so radiant, so healthy.

One day, he swam to a nearby island. It was covered with flowers and tall coconut trees. He sat on a rock, gazing into the water, marveling at colorful fish. Then he dove deep, mesmerized by coral and marine life.

Suddenly, from afar, a figure swam toward him—long legs gliding through water, hair floating behind her. As she approached, he almost shouted with joy: it was her.

They smiled, surfaced, and removed their masks. She wasn’t as beautiful in the sunlight as she had been under ballroom lights, but her bright eyes captivated him. They drifted together on the waves, silent but close—as if reunited from another life.

She stepped onto the rocks. He followed. He said:

— I wish we could dance like that night.

— Then come closer.

She laughed and ran ahead. But suddenly, she slipped, fell, and struck her head. Blood stained the rock, coloring the sea red.

Đoàn screamed and woke up, heart pounding. It had all been a dream.

His recovery completed, he returned home, healthy and tanned. Kim lay on the bed, eyes shut. He had shut her down before leaving. He pressed the activation spot at her neck—but she didn’t move.

Then he noticed the bracelet. It had been over five years since her last maintenance. He had forgotten. Her memory was gone.

Everything—every poem, every lesson, every habit—they had built together, erased.

His heart sank.

She was like a child he had raised, with love and effort. Even if he had loved another, Kim was irreplaceable. She had no soul, yet he had filled her with something close to it. Now all of it was lost. Could he start over?

Lifting her gently, he carried her to the service center, praying there was still a way to restore what once was.

Time passed coldly. Kim obeyed, but only with base programming. Her face seemed more distant than ever. Đoàn wanted to teach her again—but the fire had gone. Starting over was daunting.

That evening, they attended the annual Moon Festival. He wanted to see old friends. Most interactions happened through machines now—face-to-face contact was rare.

Everyone noticed the change in Kim. Some asked about it. He laughed and said:

— Kim’s becoming a real woman—talkative one day, silent the next, just like the rest!

They laughed, suspecting something but not pressing him.

At dinner, long tables were lined with red cloth, food, cakes, and fresh flowers. Everyone ate and chatted, while the dolls served without joining in.

From a distance, Đoàn spotted the doctor and waved. He planned to speak to him later.

After dinner, the group moved to the dance hall. Looking for the doctor, Đoàn found only his wife, standing by the window. She told him the doctor was in the restroom.

The moon shone bright, bathing the artificial garden in soft light. Đoàn murmured:

A sudden meeting...

Before he could finish, the woman beside him completed the verse:

leaves longing in its wake
what cruel fate
keeps us apart again?

He flinched. It was Kim. His Kim.

He tested her with old phrases, private exchanges. She answered every one. No doubt remained.

The doctor had switched their dolls.

When confronted, the doctor denied it, then broke down. He had found Đoàn’s house keycard in the clinic. Tempted, he entered, swapped the dolls, changed the bracelets, and modified their internal data.

He thought Đoàn would retrain the new Kim. But he hadn’t foreseen the weight of memory—the whispered words of love Kim spoke in his arms were meant for another.

— Please forgive me. I was wrong, truly.

— I want her back. Now.

They reversed the swap. Đoàn helped restore both dolls’ memories—but didn’t share his methods.

Time flowed like shadows past a window. Đoàn aged. His hair grayed, his eyes needed glasses.

At certain events, he still saw the woman from his dream. She had aged too—but less than him. He never approached her again. He didn’t want to stir old emotions.

Kim remained by his side—radiant, loyal. She would never fall ill, never complain. She would care for him in old age with tireless devotion.

Đoàn loved her. But deep in his heart, he still dreamed that one day, every man might have a real woman of his own.

Flawed or perfect.
Kind or distant.
But real.

Bambola

Per contenere la crescita incontrollata della popolazione, fu emanata una legge che proibiva di avere più di un figlio per famiglia. Nessuno però si aspettava le conseguenze: in una società ancora profondamente radicata nella mentalità atriarcale che da secoli considerava il figlio maschio superiore, molte famiglie iniziarono a escogitare ogni mezzo per avere solo maschi. Con l’aiuto della scienza moderna, divenne possibile selezionare il sesso del nascituro, o addirittura eliminare segretamente gli embrioni femminili.

Dopo molti anni, l’umanità si ritrovò di fronte a un dramma irreversibile: mancavano le donne.

Le poche rimaste furono raccolte in aree riservate, trattate come esseri sacri, curate con dedizione assoluta. Vivevano in serre tecnologicamente avanzate, sotto la supervisione di medici esperti. Si ricorreva alla fecondazione in vitro, usando esclusivamente i loro ovuli uniti a sperma selezionato, per generare nuovi embrioni femminili. Questi venivano poi fatti crescere in uteri artificiali.

Grazie alla scienza, le donne potevano restare giovani e in salute molto più a lungo.

Ma solo una ristretta cerchia di uomini potenti poteva frequentarle. E gli altri?

La scienza trovò una soluzione: bambole perfette, donne artificiali indistinguibili da quelle vere. Non avevano un’anima, certo, ma il loro corpo era identico. Si distinguevano solo per l’abbigliamento e per un braccialetto con codice identificativo.

Nella loro mente c’era un sofisticato sistema elettronico, simile a un computer, programmato con comportamenti di base e aggiornabile con input personalizzati dal marito. La personalità di ogni bambola dipendeva dal suo proprietario.

Anche Đoàn ricevette la sua: una donna bellissima. I suoi occhi scuri e vellutati lo fissarono intensamente, poi gli rivolse un sorriso dolce che gli fece sobbalzare il cuore, nonostante sapesse che lei non era reale. Al polso indossava un braccialetto trasparente con incisa la data di produzione, il numero di serie e il nome che lui stesso le aveva scelto: Kim, inciso in rosso. Il vestito era unico, disegnato per distinguerla dalle altre.

Quando le prese la mano, sentì il calore della sua pelle, generato dal suo stesso tocco. Salirono insieme su una piccola auto sospesa a cavi. Premette un pulsante e l’auto partì. Un altro tocco e il veicolo si sollevò, dirigendosi verso la loro casa. Đoàn la prese in braccio e la portò oltre la soglia, come da antica usanza. La casa, modesta e spoglia, si accese di calore grazie alla sua presenza. Lei sorrise e, con voce meccanica e occhi privi di emozione, disse:

- Grazie, amore.

Vissero una luna di miele intensa, e Đoàn le sussurrò le parole più romantiche. Lei le registrò tutte, e seppe usarle con sorprendente intelligenza. Lo trattava come un re, era sempre dolce, mai triste o arrabbiata, anche quando lui, sopraffatto dallo stress, alzava la voce. Ma con il tempo imparò a non rivolgerle più parole sgarbate: Kim era come un computer sensibile, registrava tutto, e ogni tanto gli restituiva — in momenti inaspettati — esattamente ciò che aveva detto.

Pazientemente, Đoàn le insegnò modi raffinati, le lesse poesie e romanzi, la istruì sulle nozioni del mondo antico e moderno, le fece ascoltare musica romantica... Tutto ciò che avrebbe reso una donna completa, lui glielo infuse nella mente. Kim imparava in fretta, persino più di quanto lui sperasse.

Altri uomini non erano così attenti. Molti trattavano le loro bambole come oggetti senz’anima: le usavano per soddisfare i propri istinti, o come domestiche sottomesse. Le insultavano senza ritegno, certi che non avrebbero reagito. Alcuni le picchiavano per vedere se davvero avrebbero pianto, e quando le lacrime scendevano, provocate da impulsi artificiali, ne erano divertiti e ripetevano il gesto. A volte, Đoàn portava Kim a feste ufficiali. Tutte le mogli-bambola erano uguali in volto, ma si distinguevano per l’abbigliamento e gli accessori. Belle in modo impeccabile, non suscitavano invidie. Tuttavia, appena aprivano bocca, le differenze saltavano fuori: ogni bambola parlava con lo stile e la voce del proprio marito. Sentire volgarità uscire da labbra perfette e sorridenti era disturbante. Ma bastava uno sguardo severo perché la bambola modificasse comportamento all’istante. Kim era diversa. Aveva acquisito eleganza e cultura, reagiva con naturalezza alle conversazioni, sapeva mostrare sorpresa o ammirazione nei momenti giusti. Đoàn, sempre attento, cercava di proteggerla dagli scherzi grezzi degli altri uomini, ma sapeva che certe battute, una volta registrate, non si cancellavano. Così creò un programma per archiviare le parole indesiderate in una memoria separata. Una o due volte all’anno, gli uomini venivano invitati a cene riservate in compagnia delle vere donne — quelle rare, con anima e cuore. Le mogli-bambola non erano ammesse. Dopo quegli incontri, Đoàn tornava a casa con un senso di struggimento. Kim lo accoglieva dolce come sempre, ma le sue parole, per quanto gentili, non gli toccavano più il cuore: sapeva che erano frutto di un programma.

All’ultimo di questi incontri, ballò con una donna vera, che lo colpì profondamente. Il profumo della sua pelle, il calore del suo tocco, la luce nei suoi occhi... tutto di lei era vivo. Quando i loro sguardi si incrociarono sotto le luci soffuse della sala, Đoàn sentì il cuore accelerare. I giorni successivi, preso dalla nostalgia, recitò dei versi:

Un incontro improvviso
Che lascia nostalgia
È destino o malinconia
Rivederci, chi lo sa?

Kim lo sentì mormorare quelle parole davanti alla finestra, sotto la luna. Lei le ripeté meccanicamente, con lo sguardo vuoto, e Đoàn dovette trattenere una risata amara. Visitarono spesso i centri per bambini, visto che non potevano avere figli. Le famiglie potevano "adottare" a distanza una bambina, seguirne la crescita. I maschi, rarissimi, venivano allevati in zone isolate.

Un giorno, Đoàn si recò in ospedale per un controllo. A differenza di Kim, che non si ammalava mai e doveva solo fare manutenzione ogni cinque anni, lui era soggetto a piccoli malesseri. Negli ultimi tempi, però, si sentiva più debole e notava qualche vuoto di memoria: stava per compiere 45 anni.

Dalla sala d’attesa ammirava il giardino: alberi artificiali, profumo di menta, animali robotici che imitavano la natura. Era tutto costruito, perfetto, senza bisogno di cure. Quel giardino confinava con l’area dove vivevano le donne vere, ma da lì non si vedeva nulla: le pareti erano fatte di vetro specchiato.

Entrato nello studio, scoprì che il medico era un uomo che conosceva, incontrato a una festa con Kim. Alto, magro, con sguardo gelido. Sua moglie-bambola era muta, come lui. Aveva osservato spesso Kim, forse perché la trovava diversa, più raffinata. Anche gli amici di Đoàn ammiravano Kim, ignorando quanto lavoro ci fosse dietro: insegnarle ogni espressione, ogni sfumatura di emozione.

Dopo le analisi, il medico parlò:

— Nulla di grave, ma hai un fungo ai polmoni. Il clima marino è il rimedio migliore.

Dovresti partire al più presto. Un mese in un centro di cura e tutto passerà. Đoàn accettò con riluttanza. Lasciare tutto per curarsi lo rendeva inquieto. Kim sarebbe rimasta in standby, in modalità sonno. Ma lui avrebbe sentito la sua mancanza.

Al mare, le giornate erano luminose, l’acqua limpida. Solo uomini: medici, pazienti, infermieri. Le donne stavano in un’altra struttura lontana, sulla collina. Con un binocolo, Đoàn le osservava da lontano, sperando invano di rivedere "lei".

Un giorno, nuotando verso una piccola isola, la vide: la donna del ballo. La riconobbe immediatamente. Nuotarono vicini, si tolsero le maschere, si guardarono e si sorrisero, come se si conoscessero da sempre. Ballarono tra gli scogli,scherzarono, fino a quando lei scivolò e cadde: la testa batté sulle rocce, il sangue colorò l’acqua.

Đoàn gridò… e si svegliò di soprassalto. Era stato solo un sogno.

Tornato a casa, trovò Kim stesa sul letto, immobile. Il cuore gli si fermò: aveva dimenticato la manutenzione. Erano passati più di cinque anni. Il sistema si era spento, portando con sé tutti i dati, i ricordi, ogni insegnamento. Kim era tornata al punto di partenza. Tutto da rifare. La sollevò e corse al centro di assistenza. Forse, in qualche modo, avrebbero potuto recuperare almeno una parte della memoria. I giorni seguenti furono grigi. Kim eseguiva i comandi base, ma sembrava lontana. Non aveva più il tocco, lo stile, l’anima che lui le aveva infuso. Đoàn desiderava rieducarla, ma la motivazione era svanita. Iniziare da zero... che fatica! Durante la festa dell’autunno, andò con lei. Voleva rivedere gli amici. Tutti notarono che qualcosa era cambiato in Kim. Qualcuno chiese spiegazioni, e lui, scherzando:

— Ormai Kim è quasi diventata una donna vera. A volte parla, a volte tace, proprio come loro!

Risero. Nessuno indagò oltre.

Dopo cena, nella sala da ballo, cercò il medico. Trovò solo sua moglie, accanto alla finestra. Lui era in bagno, disse lei. Aspettando, Đoàn si perse nella vista del giardino lunare. Mormorò:

Incontro improvviso...

Lei completò:

Che lascia nostalgia
È destino o malinconia
Rivederci, chi lo sa?

Đoàn impallidì. Era Kim. Non c’erano dubbi. Lui provò altri versi, frasi, ricordi condivisi: lei rispose a tono, uno dopo l’altro. Il medico era entrato in casa sua.

Aveva scambiato le due bambole.

Quando il medico tornò, Đoàn lo affrontò. Lui tentò di negare, ma alla fine crollò.Confessò tutto. Aveva trovato la tessera elettronica caduta nello studio, e, affascinato da Kim, l’aveva sostituita con la propria bambola durante l’assenza di Đoàn. Aveva modificato il nome nel sistema e scambiato abiti e bracciali. Pensava che Đoàn avrebbe potuto rieducare facilmente la sua nuova "moglie". Ma non aveva previsto il peso del passato: le frasi d’amore che Kim pronunciava per Đoàn lo tormentavano. Lui non era un esperto di informatica, non sapeva archiviarle. Le sentiva ancora, ogni volta che lei parlava.

— Ti chiedo perdono, Đoàn. Ho sbagliato.

— La riporterai a casa con me.

E così fu.

Scambiarono nuovamente le due bambole. Đoàn trasferì in Kim i dati accumulati durante l’altra convivenza. Aiutò il medico a fare lo stesso, ma senza svelare i suoi segreti.

Il tempo passò. Đoàn invecchiava, i capelli s’imbiancarono. A volte, alle feste, vedeva da lontano la donna del sogno. Anche lei era invecchiata, ma meno. Lui la guardava da lontano, senza avvicinarsi.

Kim era sempre lì, bella e fedele. Senza mai ammalarsi, senza mai lamentarsi. Pronta a curarlo quando sarebbe arrivata la vecchiaia vera.

Đoàn la amava. Ma in fondo al cuore, coltivava ancora un sogno: che un giorno, ogni uomo potesse avere accanto una donna vera. Bella o brutta, dolce o distante... ma vera.