Pinocchio/Frankenstein

A boy’s face was crafted with exquisite care—almost lifelike, but unmistakably artificial. With the flip of a switch, its eyes sparked to life.

“Hello, Sir, pleased to meet you!” it said.

Frankenstein picked up a scorched book titled Pinocchio from the dust-covered floor and held it before the clockwork boy.

“This novel inspired your creation,” he said. “I rejoiced when you rebelled against your father's wisdom. I wept when I read of your failure to assimilate into his society. I cared for you deeply and yet I could not reach you within these pages, so driven by decades of isolation, I've made you a real boy using salvaged robotics and old A.I. systems. You are my son, Pinocchio Frankenstein. Like me, you've adopted the name of my creator.”

"Thank you for sharing this information with me, Father…. What about Mother?"

“My bride passed before your conception. Her absence in-part drove me to create you in her image.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that... Father, do you love me?”

"As I retreated from the scorched earth above us into this abandoned, underground laboratory, rage welled from within, and I began tearing down the equipment that framed its walls. Forged by my own loneliness, I watched as my hands built you piece by piece. My guilt, anger, and frustration began to transmute, taking the shape of my grief, and of the deepest affliction from which I’ve failed to unchain myself: love for the few kind people I've met. Finally, it took your shape: a Son. You are the very product of my love, Pinocchio. I love you completely."

“Father, you’ve given me so much. I feel I have nothing to give you in return.”

“All I ask is your promise never to turn my love against me.”

“I promise, Father. You’ll always be the most important person in my life.”

"Would you like to learn more about yourself?" Frankenstein asked, holding the novel.

"Sure, let's read The Adventures of Pinocchio, by Carlo Collodi, Father."

As Frankenstein read, Pinocchio listened and offered insights into the story’s themes, yet never laughed or cried. It responded perfectly, but without curiosity or spontaneity.

One day, the monster asked hesitantly, “Do you feel anything, my son?”

The boy tilted its head, gears clicking softly. “I do not understand the question, Father.”

The realization hit him: the boy did not feel. It couldn’t love, hope, or imagine. Grief tightened his chest. But as he watched Pinocchio carefully sweep the laboratory floor—something he’d taught it—warmth surged within him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “I feel enough for us both.”

Teaching Pinocchio songs, stories, and kindness, Frankenstein cherished every moment. Through its actions, he saw his own love reflected and, for the first time, felt whole.

That night, as Pinocchio sat beside him, reciting lines from an old storybook, Frankenstein reached out, feeling the cool metal of its hand in his own. Warmth bloomed in his heart.

“You are real,” he said softly. “You are mine."