Chapter 2

“Good morning.”
The same sentence, but a different voice. A pleasant woman’s voice this time, without the robotic tone. The headache was way too familiar.

“Your head will hurt for a minute or two. This is normal. Just try to relax. Please don’t stand up for a few minutes.”

I lifted my right arm mechanically, trying to grab a glass of water, but my hand found nothing and closed on empty air. After some time, the headache dulled a little. I opened my eyes and saw a woman standing near me.

“If you experience any problems, please contact our doctor. Thanks for choosing our services. We hope to see you again soon.”
She smiled at me as she finished her memorized line.

I remembered her. She was the same woman who had met me when I came to this room before. I knew exactly what and why I was here—and still, the thought refused to settle. She turned and started walking away.

“Something is off.”

She stopped and turned back.

“Is everything okay, sir?”

“Yes.” I paused. “I mean—no. I know it was a simulation. But it didn’t feel like this at all. I remember—”

“What do you remember, sir?”

I needed a few seconds before answering.

“I remember everything.”
I looked at her directly, wide awake now, fully focused. I needed help.

“Please wait here, sir. Don’t panic. It seems there was some kind of malfunction. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She left the room quickly, leaving me alone.

I tried to put my thoughts in order. One thing was certain: I had come here to enter a simulation. That was a fact. The problem was how real it felt. Too real.

Was Jim not real? The thought didn’t even fit in my head. I had just talked to him. He was my best friend. I forced myself to remember the rest of that last day. The bitter taste of awful coffee was still there, lingering. My hands started shaking slightly. Fear. Anxiety. The same familiar sensations.

Calm down.

I slapped myself hard enough to feel it.

Think logically. You know it was a simulation.

There was only one explanation that didn’t collapse immediately: the memories. They hadn’t been wiped. That was why everything felt so solid, so continuous.

The door opened before I could think further.

“Please come with me. Dr. Miller is waiting for you in his office.”

I stood up and followed her into the hallway. As we walked, I noticed how similar it was to another one I remembered from the simulation.

We stopped in front of a door. She gestured for me to enter and walked away. The automatic doors opened.

The room inside was small and almost empty. A cabinet, several chairs, a few pots with different plants, and a man sitting at a desk in the middle.

“You can sit here,” he said, pointing at an empty chair without looking up.

I sat down. A few seconds passed in silence.

“So why did this happen?” I went straight to the point.

He looked up from his screen.

“As you already know, you were in a simulation. Your memories were left intact. That was a malfunction. We’ll need time to investigate the cause.” He paused. “Please describe your current condition.”

“I feel fine overall.” I hesitated. “But I can’t accept that it was just a simulation. It was indistinguishable from this world. It felt exactly the same.”

“I understand. On behalf of our company, I apologize for the inconvenience.” He didn’t sound apologetic. “What you’re experiencing is rare, but not unheard of. I’ve seen similar cases before. The important thing is to remember that it was a simulation.”

“I know that logically. But I can’t stop thinking about that life. I had friends there. My parents. A job. Hobbies—”

“That’s normal,” he interrupted. “Think of it the same way people get attached to characters in a book or a film.”

“So I should think of my family as fictional characters?”

“Yes.”

He paused, choosing his words.

“The best course of action is a memory erasure procedure. Our company will cover all expenses.”

“I’m not going to let my memories be wiped.”

He studied me for a moment.

“You consider yourself a rational person.” I nodded slightly. “Then understand this: you lose nothing by erasing them. Those memories are artificial. They don’t belong to your real life. We’ve seen cases where retained memories cause serious harm—to careers, relationships, mental health. We can’t force you to undergo the procedure, but I strongly recommend it.”

Everything he said made sense. At least, it made sense to him. I didn’t agree, but I couldn’t ignore the weight of his arguments.

“Can I have some time to think?”

“Of course. I’ll schedule an appointment for next week. You can cancel at any time.”

I stood up. He turned back to his screen. For him, the case was already closed.

Before leaving, I asked one last question.

“Have you ever been in a simulation where you retained your full memories afterward?”

He looked up again.

“That would be illegal.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

A pause.

“I’ve observed many such cases. I’ve read extensive research on the subject. I’m confident in my conclusions.”

“I see. Thank you for your time.”

I left the room and walked down the hallway toward the lift. Moments later, I felt air move across my skin.

My home wasn’t far, about half an hour on foot. There was no need to call a taxi, and I wasn’t in a hurry to get there. The roads were built above the walking paths. If the other world had used the same design, I probably wouldn’t be here now.

I found that thought mildly funny. About as funny as thinking about your own past death.

That led my mind back to the other world. The last conversation with Jim came first. Then the last time I saw my mother. It had only been a few days ago, by that world’s time. My mind tried to compare her to my real mother, but I stopped myself. For some reason it felt unethical.

I looked around, trying to distract myself, but once your thoughts start moving in that direction, it’s hard to stop them. There were a few trees along the path — small, dull, spaced too evenly. It wouldn’t hurt if we had laws about parks, like they did there.

An unusual thought came to me. I wanted to touch one of the trees.

I took a step toward the nearest one, then stopped.

Something felt wrong. I couldn’t name it at the time. Not fear. That would’ve been ridiculous. Fear of touching a tree. Still, there was a quiet uneasiness I didn’t want to examine. I increased my pace and kept walking.

A few minutes later I was standing in front of my apartment door. It felt alien. I stood there long enough for it to become strange, though no one else was around to notice. Eventually I took the key out, unlocked the door, and went inside.

I turned on the lights and started undressing. The apartment felt unfamiliar, but I knew where everything was. My memories were intact.

“John, is that you?”

A female voice from another room. I hesitated for a moment.

“Yeah.”

Liz appeared in the doorway before I finished answering. She smiled and kissed me lightly, then disappeared back into the other room, still talking.

“You didn’t tell me you’d be home this early. Do you want something to eat? I haven’t eaten yet. I’m turning on the cooking machine. Anything specific?”

I stood in the hallway, half listening. She was lively, beautiful, exactly as I remembered. And still, something was off. I tried to understand what it was and couldn’t.

“Hey,” she called out. “Are you listening? Anything specific?”

“I trust your choice.”

“Oka-a-ay.”

I finished undressing and walked through the apartment. Four rooms. Everything exactly as it should be. In the bedroom, my attention stopped on a photograph. I picked it up. The two of us, taken about four years ago. I recognized the memory. It was supposed to be a good one.

“Where did you disappear to?” she called from the kitchen.

I put the photo back.

I washed my hands and joined her. Liz was humming, moving slightly as she loaded ingredients into the cooking machine.

“You’re going to regret trusting me,” she said, turning and grinning. “We’re eating healthy today.”

I smiled back without thinking.

Time felt slow. For her, probably not. She finished and sat across from me, resting her chin on her hands.

“You may start.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“You always do.”

She was right. This wasn’t the first time I’d told her about a simulation. Normally I prepared the story on the way home. This time I hadn’t.

“In that world, I was a writer,” I said. “I’d published a few successful books. I played stickball in school.” And so on.

I told her almost the same story I’d told Jim. It wasn’t the life I was supposed to describe. I’d never lied to her before, but it didn’t feel wrong. I didn’t want to explain that I remembered everything. And I was curious whether she’d notice anything unusual.

She didn’t.

“That was a good one,” she said. “Maybe fourth or fifth on my list. Still far from my favorite — the one where you were a space traveler.”

“You didn’t feel it was different?”

“They’re all different,” she said. “Did you enjoy it?”

I nodded.

The cooking machine signaled that the food was ready. Liz brought two green plates covered in vegetables. I wasn’t hungry, but I wanted to taste it immediately.

“This is Rossi salad,” I said.

She laughed. “What’s a Rossi salad?”

I tasted it. It was definitely Rossi salad.

“I had it a long time ago,” I said. “That’s what it was called.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So is mine better?”

“Yes, for sure.”

It tasted exactly the same.

After we finished eating, I stood up.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, collecting the plates.

“I’m tired. I’ll read for a bit. Maybe sleep.”

“That’s new,” she said. “You’re usually full of energy after simulations.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what I could say.

The book was in the same place as always. I opened it where I had stopped. It was a long book; I had started reading it about a week ago, by this world’s time.

It was difficult to focus. My mind kept drifting elsewhere. When I finally managed to concentrate, it lasted only a few minutes.

I knew where this was going.

The book reminded me of another one I had read in the other world. It wasn’t the same book — the title, the author, the characters, the plot were all different. But the premise was familiar. The ideas were arranged in the same way.

I already knew how it would end.

There was no point in continuing. I closed the book and set it aside. I lay on the bed with my eyes closed. My thoughts shifted back and forth between this world and the other one, without any clear order.

“Knock-knock,” Liz said. “You’re not reading.”

“This book is terrible,” I said without opening my eyes.

“You told me you liked it.”

“The beginning was fine. Now it’s terrible.”

She walked into the room and lay down beside me.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

I didn’t want to watch anything specific. But anything felt better than thinking. I opened my eyes.

“Sure,” I said. “Do you have something in mind?”

The day passed quietly.

We watched two movies. I didn’t like either of them. The first was a horror movie that wasn’t scary. Liz didn’t like it either. She apologized for choosing it, which felt unnecessary, but insisted on picking another one.

It was called Late Autumn.

It was about a man who returned to his hometown after many years, trying to fix relationships that no longer fit. Nothing dramatic happened. People talked. Avoided certain topics. Remembered the same events differently.

My wife liked it. She said it felt honest.

I felt almost nothing. Only a faint irritation, like déjà vu stretched too thin. I had seen this movie before.

Not this one exactly. But something indistinguishable from it.

In the simulation, there had been dozens like it.

After that we played games. Cards, board games, even a bit of video games. I lost most of them. Unexpectedly, that was the best part of the day.

In the evening we talked about random things. Liz went to bed first. I stayed behind, wanting to be alone for a while.

“Didn’t you say that book was terrible?” she asked before leaving.

“Yes,” I said. “But I’ll give it one last chance.”

She wished me good night and went into the bedroom.

“Good night, Liz,” I said. Then, more quietly, “Thank you.”

I sat on the couch, thinking about the day. Liz had noticed something was wrong. She had tried to help. On any other day, it would have worked. I knew that. I loved spending time with her.

But not today.

The sense that something was wrong had only grown stronger.

At some point my eyes fell on the book. I picked it up and opened it where the bookmark was. Then I turned to the last chapter.

I lay back and read the ending.

When I finished, I put the book down.

The answer I had been circling all day was already there. I didn’t feel fear when I reached it. I didn’t feel relief either. It simply settled into place.

There were still things I needed to check. Things I needed to test.

But before I went to sleep, one thought came to me, calm and clear.

Maybe the memory wipe really would be the best solution.