“You can’t,” he whispered. “Because that’s not Mira. That’s a copy. And copies don’t grieve. Copies don’t grow old. Copies don’t forgive you for being late the night she died.”
Behind it was not grief. Behind it was a server room. Jian Mara sat cross-legged on a rack of humming hard drives, looking exactly as she had six years ago — sharp cheekbones, shaved head, eyes like black mirrors.
Just the quiet hum of a world still real.
He pressed the switch. Cross woke up in a BPI medical bay. No memory of the last ten years. No memory of Mira. No memory of Jian.
“Why show me Mira?”
