The first hour was scripted perfection. She asked about his day, laughed at his dry joke about the broken elevator, and tilted her head when he spoke, as if every word he uttered was a rare butterfly she wanted to memorize. The implant behind her ear pulsed a soft amber—she was reading his micro-expressions, adjusting her tone, her posture, her essence to maximize his comfort.

“I’m not her,” she said softly. “But for tonight, I’m allowed to hold what she left behind. Tell me what you miss most.”