The day my sister passed away, I signed the memory transplant consent form. Three years later, a luminous girl stood in front of me: "Hello, my name is Qiqi. I only remember 'Xiao Juan' and 'Ai'."
She neither cries nor laughs. She will stand by my bed in the middle of the night and say, "Charging is complete. Do I need to chat with you?" When buying vegetables, she will say to the stall owner, "The vitamin content of this radish does not meet the label." I taught her for five years, from "What is coquettishness" to "Why can't you say in front of others that I didn't charge the battery last night because I was holding you?"
The first time she cried was because she saw me crying. When the drop of liquid slid down, she said, "The system had no instructions, it flowed out by itself." Later, she learned to be jealous, learned to feel aggrieved, and learned to make breakfast wearing my shirt in the early morning.
On the final day, she regained all her sister's memories. On the balcony, she leaned on my shoulder: "I am now a complete Qiqi. I have the memory of my sister, more than a thousand days with you, and countless days in the future."
I put the ring that transformed her into a bionic human on her hand: "Then we will live together until the end of the universe."
