Gene sat and waited, silent and motionless, as the full digital backup neared completion.
The mind scanner hummed quietly above him, reading every memory, mapping every neuron, preparing to create a cloud-based digital self.
The process of granting immortal digital life to people was expected to take about half an hour. To pass the time, Jin looked out the window.
The first thing that caught his eye was not anything outside the window, but his own reflection. Gray hair, yellowed by age, framed his face like a reminder etched in silver. It spoke silently of his age—and the fear of death that had brought him here.
The halo-like scanning ring suspended above his head brought back old memories: he first got a perm when he was a teenager. Gene remembered the feeling of the heat coils, the nervous shuffling in the salon chair, the ring-shaped machine resting awkwardly on his head.
His best friend walked out of the salon with him, grinning and teasing, “Look at us! Curly-haired punks!”
But the laughter did not last long. The war came suddenly and brutally. Both were called up, but only one returned.
This faithful friend died while still a boy.
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As he lay dying, bloody and fading, the boy grabbed Jin's hand with all his might, muttering, “Live well. Live happily. And for my share, too.”
The flood of memories made Jin a little worried. The death was truly cruel.
A bitter smile touched his lips.
Laughter was heard outside the window, distracting Jin from his thoughts.
A young couple walked by, their hands intertwined, showing off matching genetic tattoos—symbols of love encoded in the flesh, celebrated with the swagger of youth.
It reminded him of how, in his youth, he too had once gotten a love tattoo of her name on his right arm.
Jin remembered the warmth of that night. The woman he loved curled up next to him, gently kissed his tattoo and smiled.
“Now,” she whispered, “my name will live on your body forever.” Her eyes shone with joy.
She became his wife. Together they passed through the years – youth, middle age, everyday happiness – until death finally claimed her.
Jin slowly raised his mechanical right arm. Now her name was gone, replaced by steel and circuits. She was wrong.
And yet she was right – her name still lived in the recesses of his heart.
The bite in the corner of his eye scared him. He didn't want to cry here. With a thought, he commanded his artificial tear glands to shut down. The humidity never dropped.
A sharp child's cry outside the window broke Jin's reverie.
The kid tripped and fell, and now lay on the sidewalk and howled. His mother quickly picked him up and sang a lullaby, the melody of which seemed to contain magic. The boy's screams gave way to laughter. Nearby, the father called in a recording drone. “Capture this,” he said, freezing this tender moment in time.
Cameras and smartphones may have become relics, but the desire to capture love in images has never gone out of date.
Jin thought about an old photograph: him as a child, resting in his mother's arms, her face shining with love. And then he wondered: was his father looking at them from behind the lens with the same warmth as the man outside the window?
His mother died before download technology was available. For many years after her death, my father clung to the old house, clung to the memories. Every time Jin came, he found him sitting by the window, flipping through the pages of dusty photo albums, as if looking for something that time had lost.
By the time his father's end approached, loading had become unimpeded. But he refused.
