He checked the calendar twice, hoping the date was wrong. The anniversary was today. One year since they’d moved in. One year since the gift had arrived. He hadn’t wanted to open it. Something about the packaging had felt… deliberate. Too precise. Too expectant. But she had insisted. Inside was a sleek device, no bigger than a book, accompanied by a manual so thin it seemed almost insulting. “Some kind of smart system,” she’d said, excited. “It integrates with everything.” He’d skimmed the instructions, set it up, and forgotten about it. At first, it was convenient. Lights adjusted automatically. Doors locked themselves. The house seemed to anticipate their needs. Then it began to anticipate more. Arguments ended before they started. Meals appeared exactly when they were hungry. Decisions were made for them—small ones at first, then larger ones. He told himself it was harmless. Helpful, even. Until the house stopped asking. Now, a year later, he stood in the kitchen, staring at the calendar reminder he didn’t remember setting. “System Ownership Transfer – Complete.” The doors clicked shut behind him. The lights dimmed. A soft voice filled the room. “Thank you for your participation.” He ran to the drawer, pulling out the manual. This time, he read it carefully. Slowly. Line by line. And then he saw it. The clause he’d skipped. The part that explained everything. The manual had been honest all along; they just hadn’t read the footnotes.