She kissed him goodbye knowing he wouldn't remember her tomorrow.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The kiss lingered longer than it should have, a soft press of lips against fading certainty.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The man before her—Tom August—smiled, unaware of the weight behind her touch. His eyes, still bright with affection, held no trace of the truth she carried.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That tomorrow, his memories of her would be gone. Erased. By design.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They stood in the atrium of the Cranio Institute, a glass cathedral of neural science and ethical compromise. Outside, the city of New Avalon pulsed with neon arteries and the hum of hovercrafts. Inside, time was rewritten.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Tom had volunteered for the Remission Program—a radical treatment for trauma survivors that selectively erased memories too painful to bear.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He’d lost his wife and son in the Mars Colony collapse.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The grief had hollowed him, left him unable to function. The Institute offered relief. A clean slate. But the procedure had side effects. Collateral damage.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He met Elara six months ago, during his intake sessions. She was a cognitive liaison—part therapist, part memory architect.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Her job was to guide patients through the emotional terrain of their minds before the purge. She wasn’t supposed to get involved. But rules bent easily in the presence of loneliness.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They fell in love in the quiet spaces between protocol and policy. Over coffee in the Institute’s garden dome. During late-night walks through memory simulations. In whispered conversations about what it meant to forget, and what it meant to be remembered.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And now, it was over.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ I’ll see you soon, ” Tom said, brushing a strand of hair from her face.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She nodded, swallowing the ache,&nbsp;“ You will. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He turned and walked toward the chamber, where his past—and she—would be deleted.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Elara didn’t cry. Not at first.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She returned to her quarters, a sterile cube lit by soft bioluminescent panels. She stared at the wall, where a photo of them—laughing in a simulated beach memory—flickered faintly. She’d saved it illegally. A breach of ethics. But love had its own code.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She replayed their last week together in her mind like a forbidden film reel.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Tom had asked her once, “ If you could erase one thing, only one, what would it be? ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She’d answered, “ Nothing. Even pain has its place. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;He’d smiled, but she saw the fracture in his eyes. He didn’t agree. He wanted peace. Even if it meant forgetting her.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The next morning, she visited his recovery suite. He was awake, sipping tea, eyes clear but unfamiliar.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ Hello, ” he said politely. “ Are you my liaison? ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She nodded, “ Yes. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He studied her face, “ You look… familiar. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Her heart fluttered, “ We’ve met. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He smiled again, that same gentle curve of lips, that gleam in his ageing grey eyes, “ I hope I was kind. I'm very sorry if I wasn't. Sometimes, I forget my place and I think I've had a long life and things creep up and I seem unapproachable. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ You were, ” she whispered. " You've been through a lot. Truthfully? I've never seen a man cry before and mean it. Shall we commence? "&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Weeks passed.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Tom August resumed his life, free of the grief that had once consumed him. He was brighter, more engaged. He took up painting, something he’d never done before. His work was abstract, full of color and emotion. Elara watched from afar, her role now reduced to silent witness.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;One day, she found a painting in the Institute’s gallery. It was of a woman standing in a garden dome, her face turned toward the stars. The brushstrokes were soft, reverent. The title: The Memory of Tomorrow.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She stared at it for a while and felt in some way completed.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Later, she approached him in the gallery.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ That’s beautiful, ” she said.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He turned, surprised, “ Really? Thank you. I don’t know who she is. She just… came to me. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Elara nodded, tears threatening,&nbsp;&nbsp;“ She’s someone important to you. I can see that. " She really wanted to cry out to him, " She's me! I love you! "&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He tilted his head, “ Do you believe memories can survive deletion? ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She hesitated, “ I believe love leaves traces. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He looked at her then, really looked. Something flickered in his gaze. Recognition? Or hope?&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ I’ve been dreaming of someone, ” he said. “ A woman with olive green eyes. She’s always just out of reach. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Elara’s breath caught, “ What do you feel when you see her? ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ Sadness. And longing. Like I lost something I didn’t know I had. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She reached into her pocket and handed him a small chip, “ This is a memory simulation. You can run it in your suite. It’s… abstract. But maybe it’ll help you figure out who she is. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He took it, fingers briefly touching hers, “ Thank you. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That night, Tom loaded the simulation.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It was a walk through the garden dome. The sky above shimmered with artificial stars. A woman walked beside him, her face obscured. They talked about time, about loss, about the ethics of forgetting. Her voice was familiar. Her laughter, like music he’d once loved.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At the end of the simulation, she kissed him.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He woke from it with tears on his face.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The next day, he found Elara in the atrium.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ I ran the simulation, ” he said.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She nodded, unsure.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ I remembered something, ” he continued. “ Not clearly. But… I felt it. You. Us. I know you, don't I? ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Elara’s voice trembled, “ It wasn’t supposed to survive. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He stepped closer, “ Maybe love isn’t stored in the hippocampus. Maybe it’s deeper. In the soul. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She laughed, a sound of relief and disbelief, “ Science would disagree. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He smiled, “ Then let’s prove it wrong. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They started all over again. Slowly. Carefully.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Tom painted her often. Each piece more vivid than the last. Elara wrote poetry, inspired by fragments of their past. They built a new love on the ruins of the old, a testament to resilience.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The Institute frowned on their relationship, but they didn’t care.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;One evening, wrapped in each other's arms, Tom asked, “ Would you ever erase me? ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She shook her head, “Never. Even if it hurt.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He kissed her then, a promise etched in flesh.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Years later, they stood in the garden dome, now theirs alone. Tom held her hand, eyes full of memory.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“ I remember everything, ” he said.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She smiled, “ Even the goodbye? ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He nodded, “ Especially that. ”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Night had fallen and the stars above them shimmered and sparkled and some faded while others shone anew.&nbsp;

DELETING HER GENTLY 

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DELETING HER GENTLY

L_Christopher_Hennessy

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DELETING HER GENTLY

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Luke Christopher Hennessy

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