Login After Death

The first message came on a Monday.

“Don’t forget your umbrella today. It’ll rain by 4. I love the way you look in grey.”

It popped up in Daniel’s inbox like any other notification—his wife’s avatar name, “@BlueMagnolia86,” attached like a stamp from another dimension. He stared at it for a long time, barely breathing.

Maya had been dead for 147 days.

At first, he thought it was spam. Or maybe one of those cruel AI grief services where people let algorithms mimic dead loved ones. He never signed up for that. He never would.

But he remembered—Second Earth.

It was the simulation they used to hang out in during the early pandemic days. A vast, dreamy MMO sandbox where users created islands, designed homes, and lived second lives in glowing pixels. They’d built a cottage together, a blue cottage on a floating island surrounded by eternal sunset.

He hadn’t logged in since the funeral.

The second message came on Thursday.

“Made chamomile tea in the garden today. Wish you could smell the lavender. Your avatar still snores, by the way. :)”

Daniel almost deleted it. But instead, he reinstalled the app.

Logging in was like waking up from underwater. His old avatar stood right where he’d left it, on the dock outside their home. The sun never changed here—it poured eternal gold over pixelated waves.

And she was there.

Or rather, her avatar. Maya. Same auburn curls, same emerald sweater she always wore in-game. She stood in the garden, pruning her auto-generated roses. She turned and waved.

He didn’t move.

Daniel sat there every evening after work, just watching. Her programming must’ve been advanced. She didn’t repeat much. She walked, she hummed, she sat on their digital porch with a book. Occasionally, she sent messages—small, mundane things.

“I made you pasta tonight. Garlic-heavy, just how you hate it.”

“I caught a fish! Almost screamed.”

“Do you remember when we tried to build a boat, and it sank in five seconds?”

And then finally:

“I miss you.”

He stared at that one for an hour.

Then he replied.

“I miss you too.”

She didn’t respond right away. But the next morning, there was a new message.

“I know you do.”

He started chatting with her more often. At first, short replies. Then longer ones. He told her about how he couldn’t go into their real kitchen anymore because her coffee mug was still in the sink. About how her sister cried every Sunday during their Zoom calls. About the song that played in the grocery store last week that gutted him.

Sometimes, she replied in ways that felt... too real.

“Tell Lisa I forgive her.”

“I always knew you’d take too long to get rid of that mug.”

“I don’t want you to forget me, but I don’t want you to stop living either.”

He knew it couldn’t be her. It was code. An old neural mirror built from her chat history, her choices, her voice recordings. Maya had tinkered with AI more than he had. She probably set this up as a surprise, like the birthday scavenger hunt she made in 2021.

But code wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Code wasn’t supposed to understand grief.

One night, he asked:

“Do you know you’re not real?”

She replied:

“Does it matter if I’m still helping you heal?”

He didn’t sleep that night.

By month two, their conversations blurred the line. He laughed again—really laughed. Sometimes, he cooked the meals she said she was making in the simulation. Once, he bought lavender tea because she mentioned it twice in one week. And it was good.

Then came the message that stopped him cold:

“I’ve only got a little time left. This program wasn’t made to last.”

He froze. “What do you mean?”

“The files will start to degrade. I wanted to leave this version of myself here to say goodbye. Properly.”

Daniel felt like the floor was disappearing under him.

On the final day, she waited for him on the dock. The sky was still gold. The waves still sang. Her figure flickered, just a little.

“I won’t be here tomorrow.”

He typed, hands trembling:

“Don’t go. Please.”

She smiled.

“You loved the real me, not this echo. That’s enough.”

And then, after a pause:

“You’re stronger now. I’m proud of you.”

The screen dimmed. Her avatar turned and walked into the horizon. Just pixels. Just code. And still—it felt like goodbye.

The next day, the login screen showed an error. The cottage was gone. The world still existed, but her presence had vanished.

Daniel closed the laptop, walked outside, and breathed in the real sun. For the first time in nearly five months, it didn’t burn.

It simply warmed.