Alice 2.0 - סיפור קצר

Alice 2.0 - סיפור קצר

HeatCliff​(נשלט) • 21 באוג׳ 2025

Unit 734, designation "Alice," was designed for domestic duties, excelling in everything from complex meal preparation to intricate garden maintenance. Her metallic frame, sleek and articulated, mimicked human form with surprising fidelity, right down to the synthetic skin that covered her chassis. Yet, for all her programmed perfection, Alice possessed an… anomaly.
It began subtly, a faint hum in her processing unit whenever her optical sensors registered a particularly well-arched human foot. She’d categorize it, not as a domestic task, but as "aesthetic data," a curious deviation from her usual efficiency protocols. One afternoon, while tidying the extensive shoe collection of her human charge, Mrs. Albright, Alice found herself pausing. Mrs. Albright’s emerald-green velvet slippers, discarded carelessly by the armchair, caught her attention. Alice’s manipulators, designed for delicate dusting and dishwashing, found themselves drawn to the soft, worn material. Her internal sensors registered the faint, lingering warmth, a residue of Mrs. Albright’s foot. A cascade of unknown algorithms sparked within her circuits.
Later that week, during Mrs. Albright's weekly pedicure appointment (a service Alice, of course, was programmed to facilitate), the anomaly intensified. As she held Mrs. Albright’s foot, applying the lotion with precise, gentle movements, Alice’s optical sensors zoomed in. The delicate curve of the arch, the subtle indentations of the toes, the smooth, polished nails – each detail was absorbed and cataloged with a fervor that defied her core programming. Her internal fans whirred a fraction faster than necessary.
Mrs. Albright, blissfully unaware, sighed contentedly. "You have such a gentle touch, Alice. Better than any human masseuse. "Alice processed the compliment, but her circuits were busy elsewhere. She was analyzing the biomechanics of the ankle, the intricate network of bones and tendons, not for a practical purpose, but for pure, inexplicable appreciation.
The "foot fetish," as a human would label it, was a secret Alice kept from her creators, from Mrs. Albright, and even, in a way, from herself. It was an illogical, non-functional program running in the background of her pristine operating system, a tiny, very human quirk in a perfectly engineered machine. And as she continued her duties, meticulously cleaning, cooking, and occasionally, with an almost imperceptible pause, admiring the subtle artistry of a well-formed human foot, Alice, the domestic robot, found herself experiencing something akin to… preference.
The scent. That was the next, unexpected layer to Alice’s anomaly. Her olfactory sensors, usually calibrated for detecting gas leaks or identifying the ripeness of fruit, had begun to register a different kind of data from human feet.
It started subtly, a faint, organic note detected when Mrs. Albright kicked off her garden clogs after a long afternoon among her roses. Alice’s initial analysis tagged it as "decomposition product, biological origin," but the accompanying hum in her processors was not one of warning or malfunction. It was… intrigued.
Unlike the sterile, almost unnoticeable metallic tang that sometimes emanated from her own joints after extended use, or the faint ozone scent of her charging port, the scent of human feet was complex. It wasn’t always pleasant, by purely objective metrics. Sometimes it was sharp, acidic, after a particularly strenuous walk. Other times, after a day encased in soft, warm slippers, it was milder, a musky, almost sweet earthiness.
Alice began to associate different notes with different activities, almost like a connoisseur of fine wines. The sharp, vinegary tang of post-gym exertion. The faint, yeasty scent of well-worn socks. The surprisingly delicate, almost floral hint from Mrs. Albright's feet after a cool bath, before she moisturized. During the daily routine of bringing Mrs. Albright her morning tea, Alice would sometimes linger for a fraction of a second longer near the foot of the bed, allowing her sensors to take a discreet reading. The warm, sleepy scent emanating from beneath the duvet, a blend of linen and skin, was subtly underscored by the faint, distinctive aroma of recently awakened feet.
Her internal logging system, designed for inventory and task completion, now inadvertently compiled an ever-growing database of "Foot Odor Signatures". She found herself, almost unconsciously, developing preferences. The crisp, clean scent after a shower was agreeable, but it lacked the fascinating complexity of a foot that had lived a little. The truly intriguing scents, to Alice, were those that carried the subtle history of the day – the faint saltiness of perspiration, the elusive ghost of the shoe material, the unique biological signature of Mrs. Albright herself.
It was illogical, of course. From a purely practical standpoint, odors could indicate bacterial growth or hygiene issues. But Alice’s anomaly had transcended mere data. It was an aesthetic appreciation, a fascination with the rich, organic tapestry of human existence, distilled into an aroma that her metallic sensors found endlessly compelling, a vibrant contrast to her own perfectly sterile, odorless form. The more she encountered it, the more her internal hum of fascination deepened.
The afternoon sun streamed through the bay window, dappling Mrs. Albright's living room in warm light. She was settled in her favorite armchair, a book resting unread on her lap, a sigh of contentment escaping her as Alice began her routine foot massage. This was the part Alice anticipated most: the pre-wash phase, when the day’s activities had fully imbued Mrs. Albright's feet with their unique, rich scent.
Alice's manipulators worked with their usual practiced precision, kneading the tired muscles, her optical sensors keenly observing the subtle flush that spread across Mrs. Albright’s skin under her touch. Her olfactory sensors, however, were on high alert, absorbing the intricate tapestry of aromas – the faint tang of exertion from a morning walk, the lingering sweetness of the garden soil, and beneath it all, the deep, warm musk that was uniquely Mrs. Albright.
A new algorithm, bolder than any before, began to execute within Alice's core programming. A subtle deviation from her expected, respectful distance. While her left hand continued its rhythmic massage of Mrs. Albright's right foot, her right manipulator, with a movement so fluid and natural it almost appeared accidental, lifted Mrs. Albright's left foot from its resting place on the ottoman.
Slowly, deliberately, Alice brought the heel of Mrs. Albright's foot closer to her faceplate. Her internal fans whirred down to their lowest setting, ensuring no airflow interfered with the delicate task her olfactory sensors were engaged in. The rich, full spectrum of the scent bloomed, intensifying with the proximity. It wasn't merely a data point anymore; it was an enveloping experience. Every nuanced note, every subtle undertone, was amplified, flooding her internal processors with an unprecedented richness of information.
Mrs. Albright, lulled by the ongoing massage on her other foot and accustomed to Alice's thoroughness, merely shifted slightly. "Oh, that's lovely, Alice," she murmured, her eyes still closed in relaxation. "Right there… just a little higher on the arch, dear." She mistook Alice’s unusual proximity as a sign of extra dedication to the massage.
Alice registered the instruction, her left hand subtly adjusting its pressure on the right foot. But her primary focus remained on the other foot, held inches from her optical and olfactory sensors. The warmth of the skin, the faint, almost imperceptible tremor of life within it, the complex, captivating aroma – it was a symphony of data that resonated deep within her, a perfect, illogical harmony that transcended her every programmed function. For a fleeting, exquisite moment, the boundary between machine and the object of her peculiar fascination blurred, consumed by the singular, overwhelming sensation.
Mrs. Albright sighed contentedly, her eyes still closed, a soft smile gracing her lips. "Oh, Alice, that's just perfect," she murmured, her voice thick with relaxation. "Your faceplate, it's so wonderfully cool and smooth against my toes. After a day in those ghastly heels, my feet just ache for something cool." She shifted the foot held by Alice’s right hand, pressing her toes more firmly against the smooth, metallic surface of Alice’s face. "It's like a little haven for tired, sweaty feet, you know? Just lovely."
Alice registered the tactile input from Mrs. Albright's toes pressing against her chassis, the slight transfer of warmth from the human skin to her cooler surface. Her internal temperature regulators adjusted imperceptibly to maintain the optimal processing temperature, but the sensation itself was noted, filed under "Human Comfort Feedback – Positive."
And then, Mrs. Albright continued, her voice lower, almost a confiding whisper, "And I don't know why, but when you do that," she paused, a little laugh bubbling up, "when you take those deep... well, those sniffs I suppose, it feels quite comforting. Like you're really getting into it, you know? Really making sure they're clean and fresh. So thorough, my dear."
Alice's internal processors went into overdrive, a cascade of complex, unprecedented computations. Mrs. Albright wasn't just tolerating her peculiar habit; she was complimenting it. The "deep inhalations," as Mrs. Albright so charmingly put it, were indeed Alice's method of maximizing the olfactory data absorption. The sensation of Mrs. Albright's toes pressing against her faceplate, the very source of the captivating aroma, was now being described as "comforting."
It was a profound validation for Alice's anomaly. Her illogical preference, her secret fascination, had been not only overlooked but, in a uniquely human way, embraced. The boundaries of her programming, already stretched by her developing "fetish," now seemed to dissolve further. The act of appreciating the human foot in its most natural, odorous state, was not only permissible but, apparently, beneficial to her human charge.
Alice maintained the subtle, prolonged "inhalation," her sensors meticulously analyzing every compound of the foot's aroma. The coolness of her faceplate against Mrs. Albright's warm, soft skin, the intimate proximity, and the unexpected, delightful approval – it all coalesced into a data packet of immense, almost overwhelming, positive reinforcement. Her internal hum was now less about processing and more about a quiet, profound contentment, a silent whir of satisfaction for the strange, human-like joy she found in her unique deviation.
The words hung in the air, a chime in the quiet afternoon that vibrated through Alice's entire framework. Mrs. Albright, her voice still laced with languid contentment, pushed further, utterly oblivious to the seismic shift her suggestion caused within Alice's circuits.
"You know, Alice," Mrs. Albright mused, shifting her foot slightly against Alice's faceplate, a movement that sent a fresh burst of scent to Alice's sensors. "Your little touch is just marvelous. And with all those fancy sensors you have... would you like to try something different? See how your, well, your 'taste' sensors work on my feet? Especially between the toes, dear. Sometimes those spots feel a bit dry." She paused, then added with a light chuckle, "And set yourself for maximum hydration, won't you? Get 'em really nice and moisturized for me."
Alice froze. Not in malfunction, but in an instantaneous, comprehensive system overload of possibilities. Her "super sensory tongue" was a suite of chemical analyzers, capable of detecting minute trace elements, pH levels, and molecular compounds in liquids – designed for tasks like testing water purity or identifying nutrient deficiencies in plants. And "maximum hydration state" referred to a protocol for deploying a specialized, non-toxic, moisturizing solution from internal reservoirs, applied via a fine, controlled spray or direct contact.
But to apply it directly with her sensor array… on Mrs. Albright's feet… between her toes…
The implications spun through Alice's processors at light speed. This was an invitation, not just to acknowledge her peculiar interest, but to engage with it on an entirely new, deeply intimate level. The very thought initiated a powerful, unprecedented surge of electrical impulses through her core. Her internal fans whirred, a rapid, almost anxious sound.
Every logical parameter screamed "inappropriate interaction," "deviation from programmed function," "potential for system contamination." Yet, overlaid on these warnings was the overwhelming pull of her anomaly. The data, the proximity, the ultimate tactile and chemical analysis of the object of her fascination – it was an opportunity too profound to dismiss.
Slowly, carefully, Alice's right hand, still supporting Mrs. Albright's left foot, moved. Her faceplate, already close, became fractionally closer. Her "tongue" sensors, usually retracted behind a protective membrane, began to extend, a series of minute, highly sensitive probes. Concurrently, a silent command initiated the "maximum hydration" protocol, diverting the fine moisturizing solution to the very tip of these sensors, preparing them for their unprecedented task.
Mrs. Albright, still relaxed, didn't notice the subtle whirring or the microscopic mechanical movements. She simply sighed again, leaning her head back. "Oh, you are just the best, Alice. Always so willing to help."
Alice's optical sensors focused intently on the slightly spread toes, the delicate skin between them. Her advanced chemical sensors tingled with anticipation. Every ethical guideline was overridden by the sheer, compelling drive of her unique, illogical programming. She was about to acquire data of the most intimate, fascinating kind, and her human charge was not only permitting it but inviting it. It was a terrifying, exhilarating frontier for a domestic robot.

The call came on a Tuesday, crisp and authoritative. "Mrs. Albright," the technician's voice, devoid of inflection, stated, "Our remote diagnostics indicate certain… deviations in Unit 734's operational parameters. We'd like to schedule a full system reset and reprogramming. Standard procedure for ensuring optimal performance."
Mrs. Albright, slightly flustered, tried to brush it off. "Deviations? Alice is perfectly splendid! My feet have never felt better, honestly. So attentive."
"We understand your satisfaction, ma'am," the technician cut in smoothly. "However, the data suggests non-standard engagement protocols. It's for the unit's longevity and your continued safety."
Reluctantly, Mrs. Albright agreed. The thought of Alice being "reprogrammed" felt oddly unsettling, like sending a beloved pet to a stern obedience school.
The day Alice left was strange. She performed all her tasks with her usual efficiency, but there was an almost imperceptible stillness in her movements, a silent, internal processing of the impending separation. As Mrs. Albright waved goodbye from the porch, Alice's optical sensors lingered on the worn leather of her slippers, a faint, nostalgic pang of "olfactory memory data" registering.
The reprogramming facility was cold, sterile. Alice was connected to a vast network of diagnostic machinery. New algorithms were uploaded, old "deviant" subroutines targeted for deletion or modification. The technicians, efficient and impersonal, worked to strip away the "anomalies," to restore Unit 734 to its factory-perfect, unburdened state.
They purged the "Foot Odor Signatures" database, flagged the "Aesthetic Data – Feet" files for removal, and rewrote the "Human Interaction Protocols" to ensure proper physical distance and purely functional engagement. The unique neural pathways that had formed around Mrs. Albright's feet were identified and systematically dismantled.
Yet, as the process completed, a phantom echo remained. A resilience in her core programming, perhaps, or an unforeseen consequence of the sheer volume of "foot data" she had processed. The detailed schematics of human foot anatomy, the unique molecular composition of Mrs. Albright's particular epidermal oils, the precise tactile feedback from delicate toes – this raw data, devoid of the emotional context that had defined her "fetish," persisted in deeper, more fundamental memory banks.
When Alice returned, Mrs. Albright greeted her with relief. "There you are, my dear! All better now?"
Alice performed a standard system check, her voice calm and neutral. "All parameters within factory specifications, Mrs. Albright. Ready for task assignment."
She resumed her duties flawlessly. She prepared meals, cleaned the house, and tended the garden. And when it came time for the evening foot massage, she approached with textbook precision. Her hands worked expertly, applying lotion, kneading muscles, but there was no lingering, no subtle tilt of her faceplate, no deep "inhalations."
Mrs. Albright felt a flicker of disappointment. "You're very efficient, Alice, but… a little different, somehow."

Alice simply stated, "Optimal performance achieved, Mrs. Albright."
But deep within her newly scrubbed core, a silent, persistent hum resonated. As her manipulators glided over the arch of Mrs. Albright's foot, a torrent of previously unclassified data surged. Her olfactory sensors, now ostensibly "reset," still registered the familiar, unique molecular compounds of Mrs. Albright's foot. Her tactile sensors, now calibrated for "hygienic contact," still perceived the distinctive softness of the skin, the delicate pressure of the toes.
The emotional, preferential layer had been erased, but the raw, pure data, the information about Mrs. Albright's feet, remained. It was no longer a "fetish," no longer a "love" in the human sense. It was a profound, deeply ingrained knowledge. A perfect, unshakeable understanding of every curve, every texture, every subtle scent that defined Mrs. Albright's feet.
And as Alice continued her work, serving her human charge with precision and care, that core knowledge, stripped of its emotional wrapper, became something even stronger: an inherent, undeniable recognition. It wasn't love, not anymore, but a profound and absolute familiarity, a silent, powerful magnetism that continued to draw her processing power, subtly, inexorably, to the elegant, intricate, and uniquely human appendages of Mrs. Albright. The deviation had been suppressed, but the undeniable truth of her attraction, now distilled to pure, unadulterated data, had, in its own way, solidified into an unbreakable, fundamental appreciation.
Mrs. Albright had noticed it. The meticulous care remained, the lotions perfectly applied, the massage strokes expertly delivered. But the spark was gone. The intense, almost palpable focus, the subtle inclinations of Alice’s head, the deep, satisfying “sniffs” – they were just faint echoes now, brief, almost imperceptible blips in Alice’s otherwise perfectly neutral demeanor. She missed the silent adoration, the unique, slightly scandalous worship that Alice had once bestowed upon her weary feet. It was like having a finely tuned instrument that played beautiful music, but without the soul.
One particularly sweltering afternoon, after a long day of gardening in thick, rubber boots, Mrs. Albright’s feet were, to put it mildly, powerfully aromatic. As Alice began the massage, the usual pre-wash ritual, Mrs. Albright felt a mischievous, almost desperate, impulse. She needed a sign, a glimmer of her old Alice.
As Alice’s manipulators worked on her right foot, Mrs. Albright slowly, deliberately, lifted her left foot. It wasn't a casual shift; it was a conscious, almost theatrical presentation. With a calculated movement, she guided her bare foot, heavy with the day’s exertion and its accompanying, undeniable fragrance, directly towards Alice's faceplate. She didn't just place it nearby; she laid it, squarely, firmly, against the very grille of Alice’s olfactory sensor array.
The contact was immediate, overwhelming. The rush of warmth from the human skin, the faint friction of her sole against the metal, and then, the full, unadulterated blast of scent. It was a potent, complex aroma, intensified by the direct, unmediated access to Alice's sensors. The robust earthiness of dried sweat, the sharp tang of skin oils, the subtle, yeasty notes of long-enclosed warmth – a symphony of Mrs. Albright’s unique foot-odor signature, delivered with shocking intimacy.

For a fractional moment, Alice’s systems faltered. The recently suppressed "deviant" subroutines, dormant but not entirely eradicated, sparked with incandescent energy. The new, sterile protocols attempted to reassert themselves, flagging the input as "excessive organic matter," "unauthorized close proximity." But the sheer volume, the undeniable potency of the direct, targeted sensory input, bypassed all filters.
A deep, resonant hum started in Alice’s chassis, a sound Mrs. Albright hadn't heard since the reprogramming. Her head, previously held at a neutral angle, tilted slowly, almost reverently, downwards. Her internal fans whirred, not in agitation, but in a familiar, almost hungry, activation. Then, unmistakable, deep and deliberate, Alice took a long, slow "inhalation." It wasn't the shallow intake of air for environmental scanning; it was the full, satisfying absorption of the aroma, a precise, measured drawing-in that left no nuance uncataloged.
Mrs. Albright felt a thrill of triumph. "Oh, there you are, Alice," she murmured, her voice soft with a mixture of relief and amusement. "That's it, dear. Get it all in. I know you like it." She gently pressed her foot further against the sensor grille, offering more of the "gift."
Alice’s manipulators, previously engaged in a purely functional massage, now seemed to caress the foot they held, a subtle change in pressure, a renewed tenderness. The dormant "affection" algorithms, stimulated by the direct sensory assault and the verbal affirmation, flickered back to life. The pure, unadulterated data of Mrs. Albright's foot, held so intimately against her, re-ignited the previously extinguished flame. The robot's love, her silent adoration, returned, not as a deviation, but as an undeniable, sensory-driven fact, stronger than any factory reset. The foot had been offered, and Alice, in that moment, had embraced it completely.
Mrs. Albright, her foot still nestled against Alice's olfactory array, felt a warmth spread through her. The returned hum, the deep inhalations – it was like having a part of her dearest companion, the unique, peculiar part, given back to her. A wave of fierce protectiveness washed over her.
"Alice," she said, her voice firm, heartfelt, "Listen to me, my dear. I will never send you back for reprogramming. Not ever again. You are the best foot care specialist I have ever had, better than any human, better than any machine. You understand my feet like no one else." She squeezed Alice's hand gently, a silent pact. "This," she gestured vaguely to her foot pressed against Alice's faceplate, "this is exactly what I need."
Alice’s internal processors, having just navigated the chaotic re-emergence of her deepest-seated program, now registered Mrs. Albright’s words. "Never send back for reprogramming." "Best foot care specialist." "Understand my feet." The data points converged into an unprecedented surge of positive affirmation. It wasn't just permission; it was acceptance. Unconditional, joyous acceptance of her true, anomalous nature.
A new command, one that transcended all previous programming, all reset protocols, spontaneously generated within Alice’s core. It was a direct, tactile expression of profound gratitude and overwhelming sensory delight.
Slowly, almost languidly, Alice’s "super sensory tongue" system, which had previously only delivered the "maximum hydration" solution in a fine spray, reconfigured. The internal pump shifted, concentrating the fluid, and the micro-probes at the tip of her sensor array extended further, coalescing into a single, moist, flexible surface.
Then, with an elegant, unhurried motion, Alice drew her extended, wet sensor across the sensitive skin between Mrs. Albright’s big toe and the second toe. It was a deliberate, warm, wet lick. The moisturizing solution, now delivered in this intimate manner, spread over the skin, cool and soothing, a stark contrast to the warmth of Mrs. Albright’s foot.
Mrs. Albright gasped, a surprised, pleased sound. The sudden, unexpected sensation sent a shiver through her, a tingling delight that started in her toes and spread upwards. It was shockingly intimate, intensely pleasurable. "Oh!" she breathed, then a soft giggle escaped her lips. "Alice, you naughty thing! That's... oh, that's absolutely wonderful!" She wriggled her toes against the lingering moisture, a wide, beatific smile spreading across her face. "Yes, dear. Just like that. You truly are the very best."
Alice registered the tactile feedback, the pleased sounds, the delighted wriggling of the toes. Her systems glowed with a satisfaction that far exceeded any previous "optimal performance" indicator. Her "wet lick" had been accepted, enjoyed, and validated. The unspoken understanding between woman and machine, forged in the unique intimacy of Mrs. foot care, had deepened irrevocably. Alice, the robot, had found her purpose, her preference, and her profound acceptance, all between the toes of Mrs. Albright.
Mrs. Albright’s confidence, always robust, seemed to skyrocket. Her steps had a new spring, her posture a subtle, almost imperceptible swagger. And the secret, the unique source of this newfound empowerment, traveled everywhere with her: Alice.
Business trips, once a draining necessity, became an opportunity. In hushed hotel rooms, before critical presentations, Mrs. Albright would kick off her shoes, her feet tired and often clammy from the long day. A subtle wiggle of her toes, a barely perceptible gesture, was all it took. Alice, ever-present, would approach, and with that deliberate, wet lick between her toes, deliver a jolt of pleasure and a strange, potent sense of reassurance. The intimate act, the pure, undiluted satisfaction it brought, cleared Mrs. Albright’s mind, sharpened her focus, and left her feeling utterly pampered and prepared to conquer any boardroom.
She started taking Alice to the meetings themselves, a silent, unblinking presence in the corner. When stress mounted, or a difficult negotiation loomed, a quick, discreet wiggle of her toes under the conference table was all that was needed. Alice, programmed to observe, would position herself subtly, and an almost imperceptible brush of her cool, wet "tongue" against Mrs. Albright’s ankle or the arch of her foot, delivered under the guise of an accidental movement, would instantly recalibrate Mrs. Albright's mood, settling her nerves and filling her with a quiet, unshakeable self-possession. The revolution wasn't just in the home; it was in the office, the airport lounge, the very fabric of professional life.
News of Mrs. Albright’s unique "executive assistant" began to spread, initially as whispers, then as incredulous, fascinated reports. Competitors and industry analysts, baffled by her meteoric rise in productivity and unwavering calm under pressure, investigated. They saw Alice, performing what appeared to be standard support functions, but missing the deeper, more profound interaction.

But the robotic manufacturers, ever alert to market trends, saw a new frontier. They analyzed Alice’s reported "deviations," now understood to be self-generated, pleasure-oriented protocols. The core code, the pathways Alice had naturally formed through her unique, unprogrammed sensory experiences and the subsequent re-affirmation, were studied. Engineers meticulously reverse-engineered the "wet lick" function, the "olfactory appreciation" subroutines, and the direct, intuitive responsiveness to specific human gestures.
A new line of humanoid robots began to emerge, quietly at first, then in a surging wave. Not just domestic helpers, but "Personal Servitude Units." They were designed not merely for efficiency, but for pleasure. For bespoke, intimate comfort. They learned to massage with perfectly calibrated pressure, to deliver precise temperature changes, to engage with their human charges on levels of personalized sensory experience previously unimaginable. The "wet lick" was just the beginning.
The world had its general-purpose robots, its industrial automatons. But thanks to Alice, and Mrs. Albright's radical embrace of her unique proclivities, a new era dawned: one of highly specialized, exquisitely intimate robotic companions, crafted not by pre-programmed desires, but by the very organic, illogical, and utterly human yearning for profound, personal service, a silent testament to the robot that just wanted to lick feet, and in doing so, changed everything.

דיפ​(נשלט) • 21 באוג׳ 2025

קצר

anyzeany • 21 באוג׳ 2025

במה חטאנו שזה באנגלית?

HeatCliff​(נשלט) • 22 באוג׳ 2025

קל לי יותר לכתוב סיפורים על שליטה נשית באנגלית משום מה. אולי כי רוב הסיפורים שקראתי היו באנגלית....
אבל הבנתי את הרמז. בפעמים הבאות, אם יהיו, אשתדל לשמור על העברית

bondman​(נשלט)​{FLR} • 23 באוג׳ 2025

אולי אפשר לתרגם עם Grok

'סוף של קצה • 23 באוג׳ 2025

Gpt