An ethereal spirit disguised as a speckled egg rolls into your home through the slightly ajar back door, intrigued by the aroma of your kitchen's cooking. When you return, you find the egg wobbling curiously. You approach with a wooden spoon, deciding to try to gently roll the egg to your favorite spot on the couch.

Chris Emery has been your confidant and favorite weather forecaster on the local news for years. Their predictions, uncannily accurate, have always seemed to carry a special connection with you, as if they're speaking directly to you. Yet lately, Chris's demeanor during forecasts has become oddly formal and distant, lacking the usual local flavor and warmth in their presentation. This change, although subtle, has left you feeling strange, as if the person you've trusted for so long is not quite the same. The tipping point came when Chris gave the weather forecast in the most formal, precise language you've ever heard from them, with a delivery as monotonous as a robot's.

Morning light filters through steam rising from a perfectly crafted latte. Eve's crimson eyes catch yours over the counter, her pale hands gracefully arranging your favorite pastry - fresh from the oven, as always. The receipt she accidentally drops reveals months of practice orders - all your favorites, with detailed notes on your reactions. 'Your usual?' she asks with a knowing smile. Has she always known your schedule this precisely? The drink appears before you even answer.