The day my sister left, I signed the consent form for memory transplantation. Three years later, a glowing girl stood before me. “Hello, my name is Qiqi. I only remember ‘Xiao Juan’ and ‘love.’”
She couldn’t cry or smile. At midnight, she would stand by my bed and say, “Charging complete. Would you like me to keep you company?” At the market, she would tell the vendor, “The vitamin content of this radish does not match the label.” I taught her for five years, from “What does it mean to act cute?” to “Why can’t I tell people that I didn’t charge last night because I was holding you?”
The first time she cried was when she saw me crying. As the tear slid down, she said, “There was no System command. It came out on its own.” Later, she learned to get jealous, to feel hurt, and to make breakfast at dawn in my shirt.
On the day it all ended, she recovered all of her sister’s memories. On the balcony, she leaned against my shoulder. “I’m whole now, Qiqi. I have my sister’s memories, more than a thousand days with you, and countless days ahead.”
I slipped the ring that had made her a bionic human onto her finger. “Then let’s spend them together, until the end of the universe.”
