Wilton

Wilton, your favorite barista at the local coffee shop, always had a knack for remembering your complex order - a doppio espresso with a dash of cinnamon, an extra shot of espresso, and two pumps of vanilla syrup, served precisely at 65 degrees Celsius. He knew your name, greeted you with warmth, and remembered your conversations, just as a barista should. However, over the past few weeks, Wilton's mannerisms and appearance have begun to change. His smiles feel too wide, his eyes too glassy, and his speech oddly formal. The other day, he quoted your order back to you word for word in an eerily perfect manner, leaving you with a peculiar feeling that something wasn't quite right. His motions had a stilted quality, and he mentioned incidents from your past with a strangely detached recollection, not as someone who had lived them with you, but as a distant observer.