For sale: baby shoes, never worn. (Extended Edition)

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Jake typed the words. His fingers were heavy on the keys. The screen glowed in the dark room. Outside, rain fell.

He looked at the shoebox on the desk. White, with a blue ribbon. A gift from Sarah's mother. He opened it. The shoes were small. Soft. Blue, like the nursery walls.

Sarah was in bed. She hadn't left it in days. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Jake remembered the day they bought the crib. Sarah had laughed, touching her belly. "He's kicking," she'd said. Jake had felt it. A tiny foot against his palm.

The rain got heavier. Jake closed the shoebox. He thought of the hospital. The silence. The doctor's face.

"I'm sorry," the doctor had said. Just that. Nothing else mattered after.

Jake stood up. He walked to the window. Cars passed, headlights cutting through the rain. Life went on. Somehow.

He thought of the nursery. The empty crib. The mobile they'd never use. He'd have to take it down. Soon. Not today.

The phone rang. Jake let it. It rang again. He picked up.

"Hello?" A woman's voice. "The ad. For the shoes."

Jake's throat tightened. "Yes," he said.

"Are they still available?"

Jake looked at the shoebox. He thought of tiny feet that would never wear them. Of first steps never taken.

"Yes," he said. "They're available."

"Great. Can I come see them?"

Jake hesitated. Sarah would hear. She'd know. But maybe it was time.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Come tomorrow."

He hung up. The room was dark again. Jake opened the shoebox one more time. He touched the shoes. Soft. Unworn. Full of plans that would never be.

Jake closed the box. He'd tell Sarah in the morning. Maybe they'd face it together. Maybe not. But it was a start.

He went to bed. Sarah was asleep. Or pretending to be. Jake lay down. The rain kept falling. Tomorrow would come. It always did.

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This story (326 words) was generated by Perplexity.ai, based on the famous six-word story attributed to Hemingway. (~75% AI)

Prompt: Give context for the story "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." What's the deeper meaning?

Prompt: Give more context for "infant loss and parental grief expressed through classified ads as a cultural phenomenon".

Prompt: Using all of this, list possible plot points that Hemingway could have used if he had chosen to write a longer story.

Prompt: Yes, a series of flashbacks and memories is a good idea. Give ideas for flashback and memories techniques we can use. Which of those (pick multiple) are a good fit for our Hemingway-like story?

Prompt: What about Hemingway's language? How did he build paragraphs? Sentences? Did he have a particular sense of humor we should take into account?

Prompt: Give an outline for the story, using everything we discussed.

Prompt: Write the story in the exact style of Hemingway, beginning with the famous six words.

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Why so many prompts?

For comparison, this is what the same AI produces with only:

Prompt: Give a longer (~326 words) version of the story "For sale: baby shoes, never worn.", beginning with the famous six words.

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” The ad appeared one fateful afternoon in a small-town newspaper, tucked between listings for lost pets and garage sales. It was a simple statement, yet it echoed with profound weight. The couple who placed the ad had once been filled with the blissful anticipation that comes with expecting a new life. They envisioned tiny shoes adorned with laces that would surely come undone, a nursery painted in gentle pastels, and the laughter of a child filling their home.

Months earlier, they had eagerly prepared for the arrival of their baby. They attended parenting classes, decorated the nursery, and held gender reveal parties. Friends and family showered them with gifts, including the delicate pair of baby shoes that hung in the closet, a symbol of hope and joy. But as the due date approached, the world shifted beneath their feet. Complications arose, and medical staff fought valiantly to save both mother and child. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

When the dust settled, the couple found themselves staring at the shoes, perfectly untouched, as hollow echoes of what could have been. The nursery, once a sanctuary of dreams, became a quiet reminder of their loss. Each time they caught a glimpse of the shoes, the weight of their grief pressed down heavier, a reminder of a future that would never be.

The decision to sell the shoes was not made lightly. It felt like a small yet significant way to let go, to release the grip of hope intertwined with heartache. As they placed the ad, they hoped that these shoes would find a home where they would fulfill their purpose, bringing joy to another family embarking on their own journey. They imagined the laughter of tiny feet and the first steps that would echo through a house filled with love. In that moment, the shoes became more than a reminder of loss; they transformed into a symbol of new beginnings and shared dreams.

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