Chapter 1

“Good morning.” That was the first thing I heard when I woke up. For the first few seconds, I didn’t understand where I was or why I was here. The only thing I felt was a very strong headache.
“You can take a glass of water on your left. Your head will hurt for a minute or two. Please drink the water and don’t stand up for a few minutes.” The woman’s slightly robotic voice continued, and I obeyed — with my headache, I had no willpower to refuse. I drank the glass of water and lay back on some kind of coat.

I endured the headache for about a minute, until it finally dulled a little. I could think again and tried to remember how I had ended up here. The last thing I remembered was falling asleep in my bed. I continued to recall what happened before that: I was old, had dinner with my wife, and then we talked about some silly things before we both went to sleep. Another minute or two passed while I reconstructed these memories, and finally the headache disappeared and all my memories were in place.

This is amazing, I thought. I was in complete awe when I finally remembered why I was here.

“If you experience any problems, please contact our doctor immediately. If you enjoyed your experience, you can rate it using the touchscreen near the exit. Thanks for choosing our company.”

I slowly stood up, testing my body, lifting my left leg, then my right. My hands clenched and unclenched a few times. I felt so full of life.

This is just amazing, I thought again.

Only then did I notice the room. The bright light made me squint. I remembered this room all too well now, and nothing in it interested me. There was no reason to stay. I walked toward the exit and stopped at the touchscreen, where I could rate my experience from one to ten and leave comments.

I thought about writing about my headache but stopped myself. There are enough people who have already written about this. They know perfectly well about the problem; no need to repeat it, I thought. I clicked ten and walked through the automatic doors.

I walked down a long hallway lined with nearly identical doors. As I headed toward the exit, I thought about the memories from the life I had just lived. I had been a writer there, and the memories of that life flowed through me. I remembered meeting my wife at university. I remembered how sweet and beautiful she was, remembered our wedding. Then I also remembered the books I had written. They were pretty good, I thought, as if someone else had written them. I couldn’t remember much else. It seemed only the best and most important memories were left in my mind.

Finally, I reached the exit. I stepped outside and felt a light breeze. I liked it more than I expected. The real breeze felt so good on my skin.

I took my phone out of my pocket and called a taxi. It arrived almost immediately. I had arranged to meet a friend. He wanted to hear about my experience in the simulation, to ask questions before most of my memories faded. We had decided to meet at a restaurant right after I woke up. There were about twenty minutes left before our meeting, so during the ride I kept recalling the most interesting memories from that other life. Not so much for my friend as for myself. I simply enjoyed thinking about them.

After about fifteen minutes, we arrived near the restaurant. I checked the time on my phone. Five minutes early. I was glad—I hated being late and making others wait. I went inside and walked toward our table, which we had booked in advance. As I passed through the restaurant, I glanced around, instinctively trying to compare it to the ones I had visited in the simulation. Then I realized I couldn’t remember a single restaurant from that life. Apparently, my mind hadn’t considered those memories important enough to keep.

My friend was already sitting at the table. That wasn’t surprising—he had been looking forward to this conversation.

“Hey, James,” Jim said as I approached.

“Hey.” I sat down, then paused for a moment. I remembered my name from the simulation. Adrian. I had never liked my real name much—it felt too plain. Adrian, on the other hand, had sounded interesting, pleasant. But now, for the first time, I actually liked hearing my real name.

“Are you planning to eat standing up?” he asked. “Or did you read somewhere that it’s healthier?”

I decided not to share my thoughts about names.

This is what you get for laughing at me, I thought as I sat down.

“So,” he said, leaning forward. “How was it?”

“It was… amazing.”

He waited.

“I’m not very good at telling stories,” I said. “Maybe you should just ask questions.”

“Fine.” He thought for a moment. “How long were you there?”

“I remember being 126 when I died,” I said. Then I hesitated. “But it doesn’t feel like I lived that long. I don’t remember most of it.”

“126?” His eyebrows rose. “That’s impressive.”

“It was normal there.”

He nodded, clearly thinking.

“So did it feel like a dream?”

“No. It felt completely real. Just as real as this. Pain, emotions—everything.”

“But dreams can feel real too,” he said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it still sounds strange to pay that much money for what’s basically a very convincing dream.”

I understood his skepticism. After the simulation, more than ninety-nine percent of your memories were erased. Even now, it already felt distant, almost unreal, despite how real it had been while I was there.

“Why do they wipe your memory anyway?” he asked. “That part never made sense to me.”

“It’s a safety measure. The brain can become unstable if—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “I’ve read about it. I just don’t get it.” He paused. “Doesn’t it make you angry? Knowing they erased most of your life? How would you feel if someone did that to you in the real world?”

He had a point. I had been against the memory wipe myself. But it was mandatory by law. Only the most important experiences were allowed to remain.

We sat in silence for a while, both thinking. Eventually, I spoke.

“You seem really interested in this technology. Why don’t you try it yourself?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want my memories wiped. I wouldn’t even consider it.” He sighed. “Maybe one day they’ll change those laws.”

At that moment, our meals arrived. A waitress placed them on the table. This was one of the few places that still employed human waiters, which was why we both liked it. We believed that having a meal should be a fully human experience. Service robots felt too cold. Somehow, food tasted different when it was brought by a person.

That was one of the reasons I enjoyed spending time with him. We were different but somehow also similar in the ways that mattered. He could be rude sometimes, and he had his flaws, but he was smart. That was important to me. He had his own way of thinking, just as I had mine, and even when we disagreed, the conversations were always interesting.

We stopped talking while we ate. As I finished my meal, I tried to recall anything else from the simulation that might interest him.

I finished first. He was still focused on his food, but I asked anyway.

“Do you want to hear more?”

He nodded.

I told him what I remembered, roughly in chronological order. My first day at school. The first story I ever wrote. A big win in a school stickball tournament. I remembered the victory clearly, but not the rules of the game, only that it was somewhat similar to baseball. I told him about my first kiss, my first love, my wife, the books I remembered best.

He mostly listened in silence, nodding occasionally.

“I was actually a pretty successful writer there,” I said. “Maybe I should write those books in the real world.”

“You can’t,” he said calmly.

“Why not?”

“First, you’ll forget most of the details soon. Like dreams.” He took a sip of lemonade. “And even if you remembered everything, it’s illegal. You’re not allowed to transfer creative work from a simulation into the real world.”

“How would they even know?”

“The company stores your memories,” he said. “They don’t share personal details, but they register all creative output—books, music, films.”

“That makes no sense,” I said, irritated. “It’s still my mind. It’s still me. Think about how many ideas are lost because of that law.”

He shrugged. “I never thought about it like that. You might be right.”

He didn’t seem particularly bothered. I noticed and changed the subject. We talked about other things until there was nothing left to discuss. Then we decided to head home.

“Thanks for the stories,” he said as his car arrived. “That was nice.”

“I wish I could remember more.”

“Next time,” he said with a smile. “Try to remember more.”

My car arrived shortly after. I kept thinking about his last words. Will there be a next time? I had enjoyed the experience immensely, but I had only wanted to try it once. The main problem was the memory wipe. I hated the idea of it. The only reason I had agreed to the simulation at all was because my curiosity had outweighed my disgust at the thought of losing my memories.

I weighed the possible pros and cons of another trip but eventually reached a firm conclusion: I would never agree to a memory wipe again. The only way I would return was if I were guaranteed that no memory of that life would be lost. As I thought about this, I felt a sudden wave of anger at how quickly my memories were already fading.

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it,” I said quietly to myself. “In the end, it was just like a dream.”

The taxi was already near my home. When I got out, it was late, but I had no desire to go inside. There was a park nearby. Almost everyone had one — at some point a law had been passed requiring every new residential building to include a park within walking distance. Still, I had been luckier than most. Ours was large. Maybe “lucky” was an exaggeration, considering I have never used it. But today was different. I wanted to go there.

There were almost no people in the park, which I liked. I was alone with my thoughts. It was less a park than a small nature reserve, with different kinds of plants, birds, and animals scattered throughout. A small piece of Eden in the middle of the city.

I tried to use all my senses — touching the leaves, listening to the animals, smelling the flowers. I wanted to compare these sensations to the ones I had felt in the simulation, but I couldn’t remember them. Not really. I gave up on the comparison and simply kept walking. These were real sensations, from the real world. That thought, one that never occurs to people who have never tried the simulation, made the walk even more enjoyable.

Completely immersed, I barely noticed how much time had passed. The park was huge, but I had crossed it without realizing and now stood near the gates on the far side. I was about to turn back when I noticed a small café across the road.

I had never even considered going there before. They didn’t serve tea — only coffee. They branded themselves as a specialty café and made a point of offering nothing else. I had never liked coffee and never understood how people could choose it over tea.

But then a memory surfaced. In the simulation, I had loved coffee.

I couldn’t remember the taste, only the fact itself, but the certainty was there. I had loved it.

The idea bothered me. I had always believed there were two kinds of people: those who loved coffee and those who preferred tea. As different as people who loved cats and people who loved dogs. I knew this was irrational, but for some reason I had always believed it.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered. “Why would I love coffee, even in a simulation?”

For some reason, the question felt important. “Maybe I should try it.”

There was no real risk. The café was only a few meters away, and I didn’t have to finish the drink if I didn’t like it. So for the second time today I did something I would never normally do, something completely against my habits.

I waited for the green light, crossed the road, and went inside.

The interior was plain, almost empty of decoration. Quiet music played in the background, and most of the tables were vacant. It was obvious that this was one of those cafés without real waiters.

I sat at an empty table. A touchscreen offered a long list of unfamiliar options. I knew almost nothing about coffee. I could have read the descriptions, but I didn’t feel like it. I chose something called House Dark purely because of the name and waited.

There was barely any time to anticipate the result. Less than a minute later, the coffee appeared in front of me. I lifted the cup and took a careful sip.

It was disgusting.

I waited a minute and tried again. Still disgusting.

“Well, no surprise there,” I chuckled.

But the question remained. In the simulation, I had liked it. So why was it so different here? After a moment of thought, I reached a disappointing conclusion. Love of coffee or tea had nothing to do with personality. It was just taste buds. My neat little theory collapsed.

I paid on the touchscreen, took one last sip — just to be sure — and left the café.

The dark outline of the park stretched in front of me. I stood there for a moment, looking up at the sky, thinking about everything that had happened that day.

“The simulation changed me,” I said. “Even if only a little.”

I started walking back toward the park. Maybe I should try it again someday, I thought. If I can find a way to keep my memories. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do it again. And certainly not too often. That wouldn’t be good either. Maybe in a few months. In the meantime, I could…