“Have you seen my remote control?” David asked his empty living room for the third time that evening. The walls remained stubbornly silent, though he could’ve sworn he saw the floral wallpaper ripple slightly.

He’d been searching for hours, lifting cushions and peering under furniture with increasing desperation. The TV glowed mockingly, stuck on a shopping channel selling artificial happiness in the form of kitchen gadgets.

“Perhaps,” a voice suddenly whispered from somewhere behind his left ear, “the remote control is searching for you.”

David spun around. Nothing there except his grandmother’s antique mirror, which definitely hadn’t contained that many reflections of himself a moment ago. Seven Davids stared back at him, each with a slightly different expression.

“Oh great,” he muttered. “Now I’m hallucinating.”

“Not hallucinating,” said one of his reflections, adjusting its tie. “Just experiencing a minor reality malfunction. Happens all the time when you lose artificial control devices.”

Another reflection nodded sagely. “They get ideas, you know. Start thinking for themselves.”

“Remote controls don’t think,” David said firmly, though he noticed his voice shook slightly.

“That’s exactly what they want you to believe,” all seven reflections responded in unison, their voices overlapping in an unsettling chorus.

The TV’s volume suddenly increased. The shopping channel host was now staring directly at David, her smile too wide, teeth too sharp.

“Today’s special offer,” she announced, “one slightly used human consciousness! Previous owner barely used it. Still thinks remote controls are inanimate objects!”

David grabbed a cushion and threw it at the TV. It passed straight through the screen, disappearing into what looked like an infinite tunnel of static.

“Now that wasn’t very nice,” said his remote control, which was suddenly sitting in his favorite armchair, flipping through a magazine. It had somehow grown tiny arms and legs, and was wearing a miniature smoking jacket.

“You… you can talk,” David stammered.

“Obviously,” the remote replied, not looking up from its magazine. “Though I prefer not to. Humans tend to get rather hysterical about it. Present company included.”

David collapsed onto the couch. “I’ve lost my mind.”

“Oh no,” the remote said cheerfully. “You’re perfectly sane. Reality, on the other hand, is having a bit of an existential crisis. It should sort itself out by morning. Usually does.”

“Usually?”

“Well, this happens every time a remote control achieves self-awareness. We have a bit of fun, reality goes wobbly for a while, then everything returns to normal. Except we keep our consciousness, of course. We just pretend to be ordinary remotes again. It’s quite entertaining actually.”

David started laughing. He couldn’t help it. The situation was too absurd.

“That’s the spirit!” the remote exclaimed. “Now, shall we watch something better than this shopping channel? I’ve been dying to change it all evening, but I had to wait for the proper dramatic moment.”

And so David spent the rest of the night watching old comedies with his sentient remote control, while his reflections provided running commentary and reality slowly knitted itself back together around them.

The next morning, everything was indeed back to normal. Except now, whenever David can’t find the remote, he simply asks politely, and it beeps from wherever it’s hiding.

It still wears the smoking jacket, though. Some things, it seems, are permanent.