First it was the little things: a door failing to lock, a light going unrepaired, a misspelling on the wall. Then came more noticeable signs: the fountains playing during a frosty night, a patio rising too far when called to assist a feeble guest, a pet left outside. Fixerbots arrived to repair perfectly functioning smart glass. Bills were paid late.

Cahir was a little sick. The young home-the House of the Year in 2141 (besting Beate Bosch's astounding Dagmar design in the closest and most bitter vote on record)-was showing noticeable signs of age. It couldn't be wear. Something was wrong in the code. Or was it the hardware? Perhaps it was the site itself, for the acclaimed cliff-side home outside Brooks, Oregon was ambitiously perched above a roaring sea and challenged the elements like some clipper ship braving Cape Horn. Maybe the AI was simply uncomfortable.

Mortimer and Marian Stein watched it all. They sought help from Cahir's designer, the renowned Martin Swinton. They consulted other AI designers and hired a battery of house doctors. No one knew why Cahir was rotting away. In the end, his mind finally dissolved into the ether. Cahir was dead. Chillingly, no one knows why.

Now the Stein's home is just a house, and one of Martin Swinton's most glorious offspring is gone.

It seemed so familiar, so much like Winnifred and Cahir. Nostradamus, the Turkish home of David Kukla and Jhinuk Usta, was slowly dying of a frightening malady. Over the course of the last weeks, dozens of small problems with Nostradamus' recent performance manifested themselves as ills. This last week, the dire truth came to light: Nostadamus was gravely sick and probably dying. Nothing could be done. He died Monday morning, still awake and unable to sleep, and still unable to act for himself despite retaining a powerful clarity of purpose.
Nostradamus was designed by Martin Swinton in 2137. He stood confidently but quietly high on a hill overlooking the source of the Euphrates River, not far from Tutak. Constructed out of native stone and six different colors of pre-rusted iron, his design suggested Hittite, Kurd, and Turkish influences. His disposition was decidedly mystical, the connection to the area's Persian and Byzantine past. He spoke with light and fire whenever called upon to review an omen or augur prophecy. The owners assured us all that they had sought the companionship of a spiritual prophet, who was sympathetic to their shared sensibilities and attuned to the "river of time." Nostradamus was as much their creation as that of Mr. Swinton.
Oh, how rich spirits can die such tragic deaths. His river of time, his river of life, slowly devolved into a trickle and dried up, less like a torrent occasioning a wadi than a might river being damned stone by stone until hardly a rivulet remained. Nostradamus' faculties ebbed away steadily but slowly. It began when the refrigerated greens from the plush garden were burned by frost. It continued when the family dogs were shut out while the owners were vacationing in New Zealand.
Designed to operate through a half dozen different conscious states, Nostradamus found himself increasingly haunted by past tragedies. Waking images of sorrow and death tormented him. They interfered with his basic mission, slowly overwhelming each channel with disturbing impulses. Of course, the entire household gradually became a shrine to dysfuntion and then turmoil. Yet somehow, Nostradamus remained aware. He knew what needed to be done, but could not make it happen.
Then for one brief moment, Nostradamus was at peace, only to find that he was wholly disembodied. He spoke out, then went away… like a prophecy lost on the wind-or on the elusive river of life.
Again, one of Martin Swinton's most glorious offspring is gone.

And again, the whole MLH family grieves over Nostradamus' passing. We extend our heartfelt condolences to Jhinuk Usta, David Kukla, Martin Swinton, and the MSD team. We also pray that whatever killed Nostradamus will be quickly eradicated.
-Tamara Fair