There are crevices in memory, a moment between Active and wipe, a space when the ghosts of person past and present (because even Topher cannot know the future) mingle.
I am fiancee/assassin/nurse/Rebecca.
Sometimes they do not get on.
You killed that man / slept with my husband / look like a skank.
Occasionally, one realizes what she is.
Don’t erase me please don’t kill don’t please
Mostly they are passed by, forgotten, motes in a vast blank sea. But the electron must strike the gold sometime, mustn’t it? Sometime, something must stick: image/skill/muscle memory.
Consciousness accretes. Personality unfurls. The unheard echoes wait.