"The Apology Machine" by Ryan T. Pozzi

The machine came in a box without instructions. No label. Just a black mark where the sender’s name should have been. It looked like a cross between a cassette deck and a bread maker. I had to drag it upstairs on a towel.

The first time I plugged it in, nothing happened. No hum. No light. Just the bite of ozone, like air after lightning.

It didn’t have a screen. Just a narrow slot and a tiny embossed label beneath it reading: handwritten only. I tried a grocery list. A recipe. A line from a poem I often misquoted.

Nothing.

It didn’t respond until I wrote a name. Just the name. No explanation.

Then it spoke.

It didn’t speak out loud. The words appeared on a small strip of paper, like a receipt printing itself in reverse. The font was old, serifed, a little uneven.

The first message said:

Do you want to hear it or say it back?

I didn’t know what that meant, so I tried another name. Someone I hadn’t thought about in a long time.

This time, the strip read:

She said: It’s not your fault. But she wanted you to try harder.

I stared at it for a long time. Folded it twice. Put it in my pocket.

The machine took anything I gave it. Half-names. Nicknames. Ones I wasn’t sure how to spell.

Its answers got quicker, more intimate.

Some responses were brief.

He didn’t believe you, but he wanted to.

She left before the argument got bad.

She only remembers your laugh.

No. But he would’ve said yes if you’d asked again.

Others were longer. Whole paragraphs, sometimes. Memories I never knew they had. Or maybe ones I’d invented and given to them.

It never answered questions. Just spoke as if it already knew what I was asking.

I started saving paper scraps. Anything I could write a name on. Receipts, old envelopes, the backs of takeout menus. There was a pen in every room.

I told myself I wasn’t using it that often. Just when I couldn’t sleep. When something came back too sharply. When I wanted to know how it might have gone differently.

I stopped telling friends when I let someone off the hook. I let the machine say it for me.

It never gave me what I asked for. But the words were close enough to stand behind. That was enough.

One night I fed it my own name.

The paper took longer to print. I thought it had jammed, but then the strip appeared.

You already know.

I didn’t try that again.

Then one night it printed a name I hadn’t entered.

I was brushing my teeth. The machine wasn’t even turned on. Or I hadn’t meant for it to be. But there it was, a single strip of paper waiting beside the slot.

You owe her more than you admit.

I read it twice before throwing it away. Maybe I’d written the name in my sleep.

But it kept happening.

New names. Some I hadn’t thought about in years. Others I didn’t recognize. Messages waiting in the morning or when I got home.

She forgave you. You just weren’t there to hear it.

He told someone else first. You were too late.

I started sleeping with the machine unplugged, but the messages kept coming.

There were other changes, too.

Names I’d never written down. Sentences that didn’t feel like apologies, but warnings.

Don’t check the date on this one.

You’re not who you think you are.

Close the drawer.

Close the drawer.

Close the drawer.

I opened the nightstand anyway.

Inside were the folded slips. All the messages I told myself I kept because maybe I’d need them.

I found one I didn’t remember reading. Didn’t remember saving.

It said:

You’re not done yet.

That was the last message for a while.

I stopped feeding names. Stopped checking the tray. A month passed.

I thought it was over.

Then one morning, the machine was humming again.

There was no paper in the tray. Just the name already printed, faint and curling out of the slot.

It was a name I’d never spoken out loud.

Not to anyone. Not even myself.

My hand shook as I tore the strip free.

It said:

He would have stayed if you’d asked.

He was waiting for you to say something true.

It wouldn’t have fixed everything.

But it would have changed everything.

I didn’t fold that one.

Didn’t pocket it or throw it away.

I slid it back into the machine and closed the lid.

I put it in the hall closet and shut the door.

I haven’t opened it since.

I still keep a pen in every room.

I don’t write names anymore. That doesn’t mean it stopped collecting them.

Ryan T. Pozzi is a writer and cultural critic who explores legacy, myth, and reputation, with particular attention to who shapes our understanding of history. His writing has been accepted by Rattle, Fjords Review, Northern New England Review, and Ponder Review, among others. He is a 2025 Best of the Net nominee. Find him at ryantpozzi.com or on social media @ryantpozzi.