Perfect Backup
Li Ming discovered the hidden folder while organizing his old hard drive. The folder was named "Backup," and it contained only three files, with timestamps indicating they were created on their wedding anniversary. Puzzled, he opened the first file. It was filled with dense data, resembling some sort of arcane code. The second file was a facial scan of his wife, and the third file was an unnamed audio file.
He clicked on the audio file.
"...I backed you up today, Li Ming," his wife's voice came through the headphones, with a hint of sweet laughter, "I know it sounds a bit crazy, but I wanted to make sure that even if one day... even if we're no longer together, I can still have all the good things about you."
Li Ming was stunned, a chill running down his spine. He remembered his wife recently staring at him, her eyes carrying a complex emotion he couldn't understand. He thought it was love, but now it felt more like... data collection?
He continued to browse the data files, one after another. The code started to make sense. It was his memories, his habits, his preferences, even his every minute emotional fluctuation, all digitized by her. He felt like a dissected frog, exposed under harsh lights.
He remembered his wife recently buying an AI device that claimed to do "emotional cloning." He'd mocked her for being too superstitious about technology at the time, but now it seemed she had already put it into action. She hadn't just backed him up; she even wanted to replicate him!
An immense sense of absurdity washed over him. He loved her, so deeply, but he felt like a manipulated toy, a cloned specimen. He couldn't accept that the "good things" she talked about were being preserved in this way.
Li Ming shut down the computer, feeling an unprecedented fear. He got up and walked to the window, the night spreading over the city like thick ink. He saw a couple hugging downstairs, the man whispering in the woman's ear.
He suddenly wondered, how were their "backups" happening to each other? Were they deeply engraved in the heart, or cold, digital storage?
He opened his phone and unlocked the screen. He noticed a message from his wife on WeChat: "Honey, what should we eat tonight?" accompanied by a cute emoji. He stared at the emoji, feeling a strong sense of unfamiliarity, as if the sender was just an illusion simulated by a program.
He slowly typed a reply: "You decide."
The message was sent, and the phone screen showed "read."
A few seconds later, his wife sent a voice message: "Okay, I bought your favorite..."
He felt an emptiness inside, as if something had hollowed him out. He knew that he could no longer face her the same way. He couldn't accept a version of himself that could be copied, and even more so, he couldn't accept that the person he loved wanted a copy of him.
Li Ming silently deleted the reply. Then, he turned off his phone, letting the darkness swallow him. In the room, only the computer screen flickered slightly, illuminating the cold data code and a perfectly "backed-up" soul.