Mai scrolled faster. The entries became shorter, more fractured.

Mai looked at the timestamp on the email again. 3:47 AM. Sunrise was at 6:12 AM. The rooftop—their rooftop—was twenty minutes away.

She double-clicked.

“The operation worked. Mostly. I remember how to code, how to drive, how to make that terrible instant coffee you love. But I don’t remember why I used to wake up crying. The doctors say that’s progress. But last night, I drew a picture of a woman in my sleep. I don’t know who she is. But my hand knows her. My hand misses her.”

“The gaps are filling with something else. Not memories. Ghosts. I’ll be writing code and suddenly smell rain on asphalt. I’ll be eating noodles and feel a phantom weight on my shoulder—a head resting there. I’m not sad. That’s the strange part. I’m just… hollow. Like a house after the furniture is gone. You can still see the dust where the table used to be.”

Mai.

Mai’s hand flew to her own chin. The small white scar from when she’d fallen off her bike at twelve. Hiro had been there. He’d carried her home.

I woke up saying Mai.