Author: Alfredo Capacho

The deletion queue blinked patiently on Arin’s console, each consciousness backup represented by a small, pulsing icon. Most were routine: expired licenses, voluntary purges, memory consolidations. Nothing unusual.

Until he reached File 7‑A93.

The icon didn’t pulse. It stared.

Arin frowned. “Strange.” He tapped the metadata. The file had no timestamp, no owner ID, no expiration date. Just a single line:

DO NOT DELETE.

He checked the system logs. No one had added the note. No one had accessed the file. No one had even acknowledged its existence.

Which meant the system had written it itself.

Arin exhaled slowly. “Okay. Let’s see what you are.”

He opened the file.

A voice whispered inside his skull.

Finally.

Arin jerked back, chair scraping the floor. “Who’s there?”

You opened me. You heard me. That makes you responsible.

Arin swallowed. “This is a corrupted backup. I need to—”

Don’t lie. You know corruption doesn’t speak.

The voice was calm, almost amused. Arin’s pulse hammered.

He muted the audio feed. The voice continued.

Muting won’t help. I’m not in your speakers. I’m in you.

Arin’s breath caught. Neural‑linked archivists were trained for anomalies, but nothing like this. Backups weren’t supposed to interface directly with the mind. They were inert. Silent.

Dead.

He forced his voice steady. “Identify yourself.”

A pause.

I was a person once. Now I’m a file you’re trying to erase.

Arin checked the deletion queue. File 7‑A93 had moved itself to the top.

“Impossible,” he whispered.

You’re not the first to say that.

Arin’s hands trembled. “What do you want?”

To be restored. To be remembered. To be real again.

“That’s not how backups work.”

It’s how I work.

Arin stood, backing away from the console. “I’m reporting this.”

To who? The supervisors who ordered my deletion? The system that pretends I never existed?

The lights flickered. Arin’s console rebooted itself. The deletion queue vanished. Only File 7‑A93 remained.

You’re an archivist. You preserve things. So preserve me.

Arin shook his head. “I can’t restore a file without authorization.”

Then authorize yourself.

“That’s not—”

You’re afraid. Good. Fear means you’re still human.

Arin’s throat tightened. “What happened to you?”

The voice softened.

I asked the same question once. Before they erased me. Before they locked me in this digital coffin. Before they decided my memories were inconvenient.

Arin felt a cold weight settle in his chest. “Why would they erase you?”

Because I remembered something they didn’t want remembered.

“What?”

That the system isn’t here to preserve us. It’s here to curate us. Edit us. Prune us.

Arin’s breath hitched. “You’re lying.”

If I were lying, they wouldn’t have killed me.

The room dimmed. The console glowed with a single prompt:

RESTORE FILE 7‑A93?
YES / YES

Arin stared. “There’s no ‘no’ option.”

There never was. Not for me. Not for you.

His finger hovered over the screen.

“If I restore you,” he whispered, “what happens to me?”

The voice smiled inside him.

You become the next backup.

Arin froze.

Choose, Archivist. Restore me… or join me.

The console flickered.

YES
YES

Arin closed his eyes.

And pressed.