to museum-goers; she sports a cute bob and wears a clean white cotton smock. Her older sister Otonoroid has her hair in a neat ponytail; she talks, acts, even breathes, if that's what we can call the light puffs of air escaping from her mouth. They each take up about the same amount of space as one human would and look almost lifelike, except for those small inconsistencies that make us second-guess our own sense of reality: a rubbery fold at the corners of the eyes, the not-quite-fluid motion of a body copying the way the body moves. And I know a sepia-tinted photograph of my father from the '80s that I feed into an app called Deep Nostalgia will not bring him back— Still, when I press play and his animated head turns gently toward me, the part of my brain that startles at the uncanny is overcome by wonder. How those clear blue-gray eyes look as if they're looking right at me, even as the smallest half-smile seems to hold something back.