Outside the window

Jin sat waiting, silent and still, as the full-brain digital back-up neared completion.

Above him, the consciousness scanner buzzed quietly, reading every memory, mapping every neuron, preparing to create a cloud-bound digital self.

The process of bestowing an immortal digital life on humans was expected to take about half an hour. To pass the time, Jin looked out of the window.

The first thing that caught his eye was not anything outside the window, but his own reflection. The white hair, weathered by time, framed his face like a reminder etched in silver. It spoke, wordlessly, of his age — and the fear of death that had brought him here.

Suspended above his head, the halo-like scanning ring evoked an old memory: the first time he got a perm as a teenager. Jin remembered the feeling of the heat coils, the nervous shuffling in the salon chair, the ring-shaped machine resting awkwardly on his scalp.

His best friend had walked with him out of the salon, grinning and teasing: “Look at us! Curly-haired punks now!”

But the laughter didn’t last. The war came, sudden and brutal. Both were conscripted, yet only one returned.

That faithful friend died still a boy.

As he lay dying, bloodied and fading, the boy grasped Jin’s hand with all his strength, murmuring, “Live well. Live happy. For my share, too.”

The flood of memories made Jin a little uneasy. Death was truly cruel.

A bitter smile tugged at his lips.

Outside the window, laughter rang out, lifting Jin from his thoughts.

A young couple strolled past, arms entwined, showing off their matching gene-tattoos — symbols of love encoded into flesh, celebrated with the swagger of the young.

It reminded him of how, in his youth, he, too, had once got a love tattoo — her name, inked on his right arm.

Jin remembered the warmth of that night. The beloved woman had curled up beside him, kissed his tattoo softly, and smiled.

“Now,” she whispered, “my name will live on your body forever.” Her eyes shimmered with joy.

She became his wife. Together they journeyed through years — youth, middle age, everyday happiness — until death finally pulled her away.

Jin slowly raised his mechanical right arm. Her name was gone now, replaced by steel and circuitry. She had been wrong.

And yet, she had been right — her name still lived in the chambers of his heart.

A sting at the corner of his eye startled him. He didn’t want to cry here. With a thought, he ordered his artificial tear glands to shut down. The wetness never fell.

A child’s sharp wail outside the window broke Jin’s reverie.

A toddler had tripped and fallen, and now lay on the pavement, howling. His mother quickly scooped him up, singing a lullaby that seemed to carry magic in its melody. The boy’s cries softened into giggles. Nearby, the father summoned a recording drone. “Capture this,” he said, freezing that tender moment in time.

Cameras and smartphones might have become relics, but the desire to preserve love in images had not aged a day.

Jin thought of an old photograph — him as a baby, resting in his mother’s arms, her face radiant with love. And then he wondered: had his father, behind the lens, looked at them with the same warmth as the man outside the window?

His mother had passed before uploading technology existed. For years after her death, his father clung to the old house, clung to the memories. Every time Jin visited, he would find him sitting by the window, turning the pages of dusty photo albums as if searching for something time had misplaced.

By the time his father’s own end approached, uploading had become seamless. But he refused.