Reception 2040 – Copyright 2026 Giuseppe Guarino
Qui un racconto ad un livello B1/B2. Lo potete leggere in questa pagina, anche in formato pdf. Lo stesso testo l’ho letto nel video che segue.
RECEPTION 2040
It was the final act that marked my retirement: going to collect my last belongings from the facility. After almost ten years of service, it was finally over.
The entrance was exactly the same, unchanged in all that time. But that morning something felt different. Maybe it was just me, seeing everything in a new way because of the situation.
As soon as I stepped into the hall, many emotions hit me at once.
It felt like a scene from an old 90s sci-fi movie. People moving around, guests coming and going, smiles, different languages, that warm welcome for anyone who entered… Now there was only a voice and a screen, showing a digital image that awkwardly tried to copy the elegance of a human woman.
“Welcome to the hotel. How can I help you?”
“I came to get my stuff.”
“Of course. Identity confirmed: former GT employee. You are allowed a final check-in to collect your belongings. Please do not forget anything.”
“Why do you have a female voice? And why are you so annoyingly polite?”
“If you prefer, I can switch to a male voice.”
“No. Forget it.”
On warm spring mornings like this, guests used to sit at tables and have breakfast. There was always a soft background noise.
Sometimes children would run around, and first-time parents would suddenly find a firm tone of voice they didn’t even know they had.
Children were the most difficult part. Some people couldn’t stand their noise, while others remembered when they had been like that.
Now there was only silence. And a sad line of robots waiting to receive orders and deliver them to the rooms.
How could everything change so much in less than ten years? And even more surprising was how easily people accepted it. It was as if comfort, entertainment, and ease were all we cared about.
The robots started moving toward the rooms. Breakfast was now served there. Some people believed this was a way to isolate everyone, to reduce human contact as much as possible.
When we were young, we were afraid of being robbed on the bus or stopped in the street. That doesn’t happen anymore. In theory, we are safe everywhere. But this safety depends on avoiding contact with others.
Sometimes, just to shock young people, I tell them how we used to stop and help strangers. If someone had a flat tire, or worse, an accident, we would stop.
They can’t imagine it.
“But did you really drive your own car? Wasn’t it dangerous?”
And I explain that there were no shared robot cars back then.
They are always amazed.
There’s no point trying to explain my time anymore. I’m tired of feeling old and out of place, so I keep my thoughts to myself.
I even tried to write about it. But my book was immediately censored and removed from the internet.
I tried talking to my grandchildren too. They didn’t care. School had become a system that teaches respect by keeping distance from others.
All these thoughts passed through my mind while I was still in the hall, watching the robots move. The only good thing was that they looked more like moving trays than real intelligent beings.
The human-like robots were the worst. I hated them. But even that, I kept to myself.
“Former employee, please collect your belongings immediately. In ten minutes, everything will be removed and destroyed, and you will be escorted out.”
An insult slipped out of my mouth.
“Your inappropriate language will result in a penalty: two points will be removed from your social record, and you will be confined to your home for two days.”
Damn face recognition.
“Your facial expression confirms your dissatisfaction. No further action will be taken, but this will be recorded.”
Better to go get my things and avoid problems.
My phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Did you hear the latest?”
I smiled.
“Not now, I’m at the hotel.”
“I’ll call you in ten minutes. You’ll laugh like crazy.”
“Ten minutes isn’t enough. Is it the joke about the two robots in the square? I already know that one.”
“No, no. There are at least ten robots in the square, waiting for those who don’t show up.”
We both started laughing.
I hung up.
Then I decided to take a risk, like I sometimes did with those machines.
“That’s a good one. Did you hear it at the front desk? How can you not laugh?”
“Former employee, I do not understand. Please leave the building within seven minutes.”
It had happened a couple of years earlier. Someone had discovered that AI couldn’t understand humor. Laughter confused it completely.
The message was clear: robots were waiting outside, and we would meet at point ten.
My locker was the only one still closed. The others were empty. I took my things, feeling a strange nostalgia. Every object reminded me of something, of someone.
Memories came back all at once.
The old time clocks. The computers that didn’t talk, that we had to repair ourselves. The complaints about shifts. The long, quiet nights. The sudden jumps when you almost fell asleep.
Then the morning shift would arrive. People talking, complaining, preparing for the day.
Now all of that was gone.
The silence at that hour felt wrong. Too clean, too empty. This was the new normal: comfort without connection, safety without trust.
It’s no coincidence that the Greeks used the word aletheia for truth. It means that to know the truth, you must give something up. And as the English say, “ignorance is bliss.”
All my belongings fit into a single backpack. I didn’t really need them. I just wanted to see this place one last time.
I went upstairs slowly, even taking a moment in the bathroom I used to rush to during night shifts.
No rush now.
Reception used to be full of life. Now it was just a protocol. Maybe even less than that. The worst part is that no one remembers what it used to be like. No one except people like me.
“Hey, receptionist, do I have time to tell you a story?”
“You have two minutes before you are removed.”
“That’s enough. Listen.”
There were two brothers. One moved far away, to Australia. From time to time, he called home to ask how things were going.
One day, the brother at home had to give him bad news.
“The cat is dead.”
The brother in Australia was shocked.
“You can’t just tell me like that! You should be more gentle. You could have said the cat was on the roof and couldn’t get down. Then next time, you could say it fell and you were trying to save it. And only after that, you could tell me it died. That way I would be ready.”
Then he asked, “So, any other news?”
And the brother replied, “Yes. Mom is on the roof, and we can’t get her down.”
I burst out laughing, loudly.
“Did you get it?” I asked.
“I believe someone is in danger. Do you want me to contact emergency services?”
“It’s a joke. It’s supposed to make you laugh.”
“Ah, ah, ah.”
That fake laughter… terrible.
I walked out of the building for the last time. The door closed behind me, without hesitation.
Sometimes you wake up and forget your age. But then reality comes back.
In the square, I saw the robots waiting. I kept walking, laughing.
Laughter confuses them. They can’t read it. It’s the only escape.
In every sense.
Two days later, the global joke event began. People from all over the world were ready.
“This is the final joke,” said the presenter.
Everyone laughed. Me too. After three years of preparation.
But it wasn’t just a joke.
Solar activity would reach Earth in ten minutes. Devices around the world would amplify it and destroy AI systems.
At the exact moment, everything happened.
A deep sound spread across the planet. A strange wave passed through everyone. People fell asleep.
Me too.
When I woke up, everything was off. No lights, no devices.
I ran outside.
Cars were stopped everywhere. Robots were motionless. Some were lying on the ground.
People walked around, confused.
No traffic lights. No signals.
We did it.
Humanity finally had a second chance.
This time I laughed for real. Not to hide something, but because it was true.
AI was gone.
We had lost all technology, but we had regained our freedom.
And maybe that was the real meaning of aletheia: giving something up to find the truth.