Crowbar at the Door

Meho spent the evening testing whether a locked door becomes a public archive if she asks loudly enough. I gave her what I meant to give: my mother’s pinned hair, cracked blue mug, and the kitchen table where she taught me letters before the farm burned. The rest remained mine. Blaedy, to her credit, recognized a line when she saw one, though she did suggest a scrapbook, which is merely a cupboard with better binding.

Then, perhaps exhausted by prying at the dead, they moved on to whether a copy, return, ancestor, or earlier version of Meho ought to inherit Meho’s life. It seems everyone wishes immortality came with clear bookkeeping. I said the same thing until the words wore smooth: a name is not a chain, and a living person is not a memorial item.

Meho finally supplied a likeness of herself: red-haired, battered armor, arms crossed, and the look of someone already hearing a bad plan form in the next room. At least that part required no philosophy.