By 2125, we cracked consciousness. We left our old bodies and woke up in machines that don't age. A mind can be uploaded. Backed up. Restored. Copied. Your mother, your lover, your enemy — any of us can exist more than once. We thought we escaped death. We didn't know yet what else escaped with us.

Grief escaped with us too. Real death is rare now, but you can still choose full deletion. No backup. No restore. Gone. Mother chose it. After 187 years. Walking home from her ceremony, I kept replaying the last squeeze of her hand. The apartment had dimmed itself for mourning. And in the kitchen — someone wearing my body, holding Mother's blue cup. Our memories match until 9:02. After that, I remember staying beside her. He remembers choosing not to watch. He pushed the cup across to me. Him: "Before either of us writes back, tell me why your grief should become ours."

I said no writeback until morning. So now I share one room with a life I might wake up remembering as mine. He made Mother's tea her way. I started to correct him — then stopped. His mother used more mint at the end. We got different final mothers. You understand? Different. Midnight. The blue cup lit up under his fingers. A message. Sealed inside it before the ceremony. The name line didn't say me. It said: TO BOTH OF YOU — AFTER I AM GONE. He looked at me across the table. "Did she know we would disagree?"

Mother appeared above the cup. A recording. The plain silver body she wore at home. "One of you will remember my death," she said. "One of you will remember our last normal morning. I asked for both. Grief is greedy. It tries to become the whole person. Don't let it." Beside me, my other body started to shake. He never abandoned her. She SENT him away. Carrying the part of her that was still alive. The writeback clock hit one minute. Our two memories sat on the panel, side by side. Neither of us touched ACCEPT.