Fragments of Forever

The city glowed a feverish orange under the final glimmers of sunset as Conor sprinted down the narrow, crowded street. His breathing was ragged, each intake of air scraping his throat, but he forced himself to keep moving, dodging pedestrians and hurtling over anything in his path. He didn’t have time for apologies or explanations, and he certainly didn’t have time to stop.

The deadline was less than an hour away.

He glanced at his watch — a sleek, modern thing he’d bought precisely because it counted down to the second. Forty-six minutes, thirty-two seconds. The numbers blinked like a heartbeat, accelerating in his mind, echoing his pulse.

Conor felt the weight of the small metal case tucked securely into his jacket pocket. It wasn’t heavy in any physical sense, but the responsibility of it bore down on him, almost making him stumble. It was a simple device — a flash drive — yet it contained something far more significant than it appeared.

He rounded a corner, only to skid to a halt as he faced a wall of people clogging the intersection. The crowd seemed to stretch endlessly, shuffling along without urgency. Conor cursed under his breath and scanned for a way around, but there was none. He pushed forward, slipping through narrow gaps between shoulders and bags, his breaths short and sharp. A man snarled as Conor accidentally elbowed him, but Conor kept moving, unwilling to lose even a second.

Forty-two minutes.

Finally breaking free of the crowd, he sprinted down the next street, only to narrowly dodge a cyclist veering sharply into his path. The cyclist shouted, swerving wildly as Conor stumbled sideways, his heart racing from the close call. His hand instinctively went to his pocket to check the drive — still there, secure. He steadied himself and kept running, his legs burning.

The street forked ahead, and he took the left path, glancing at his watch. Forty-one minutes. He quickened his pace, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but the moment he crossed the intersection, a car pulled out in front of him, screeching to a halt. Conor froze, his mind going blank with fear before he darted around the front of the car, hearing the driver shout obscenities after him.

Thirty-seven minutes.

The neighborhood grew rougher as he neared the building, shadows pooling in the alleyways, graffiti sprayed on cracked walls. A group of teenagers loitered near a bus stop, and one of them shoved his shoulder as he passed, knocking him off balance. Conor staggered, his footing slipping on the uneven pavement. He almost fell, and for a heart-stopping moment, he saw the flash drive tumbling to the ground in his mind. But he caught himself, his fingers instinctively gripping his pocket tighter.

As he regained his balance, his phone buzzed. He knew without looking that it was his sister, Beth. She had warned him not to do this. “It’s time to let him go,” she’d said. Her voice echoed in his mind as he ran. But she didn’t understand.

Thirty-two minutes.

At last, he spotted the building, nondescript and nearly camouflaged between two larger office complexes. A man stepped out of a side alley just as Conor ran up, nearly colliding with him. Conor mumbled an apology, brushing past, but the man grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Watch where you’re going!” he snarled, his grip tightening.

Conor jerked free, heart pounding, muttering a rushed apology before racing toward the entrance. The clock ticked louder in his head. He yanked the door open and rushed inside, the sterile glow of fluorescent lights casting an eerie stillness over the lobby. A lone receptionist barely glanced up as he pushed past, jabbing at the elevator button repeatedly.

Thirty minutes.

The elevator doors took an eternity to open. Once inside, he watched the floor numbers crawl by, his foot tapping an anxious rhythm as he stared at his watch, the seconds ticking down.

Finally, the doors slid open onto the seventh floor, and he nearly crashed into the technician waiting for him, a gaunt man with a sharp gaze. “You’re on time,” the man said with a thin smile, his tone suggesting more irritation than praise.

Conor pulled the drive from his pocket, his hand shaking. “Please,” he managed, his voice raw. “Tell me it’s going to work.”

The technician nodded, moving with a practiced efficiency as he plugged the drive into a sleek machine on a sterile console. “We’ve had successes before. Each case is unique, though.” He hesitated, his gaze momentarily softening, as if he wanted to say more, but he turned back to the machine.

Twenty-five minutes.

Conor’s chest tightened as he watched lines of code flicker across the screen. The hum of the machine was both maddeningly slow and filled with promise, each flicker on the screen pulling him between hope and fear. His sister’s words gnawed at him, blending with his own doubts. If this failed, would he finally be able to let go, or would it leave him hollow forever?

Ten minutes.

“Will he… remember me?” Conor’s voice broke the silence, the question escaping before he could stop it. These memories weren’t his, but they were filled with him, scenes his father had cherished. Would this process somehow rekindle that connection?

The technician paused, glancing up with something like pity. “What you’ll have is a recreation. It’s not like reliving something real. It’s fragments, pieced together. There will be gaps.”

Gaps were fine, Conor told himself, swallowing hard. Anything was better than nothing.

Five minutes.

The machine emitted a low hum, followed by a soft, final beep. The technician looked at Conor, his face unreadable as he handed back the drive with careful precision. “It’s done,” he said. “As well as it can be.”

Conor stared at the drive, his hand trembling as he took it. It looked the same, as though nothing had changed, though he knew his life had.

“Now what?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Take it home. You’ll receive instructions on playback protocol. It’ll be…” the technician searched for the word, “…familiar.”

Conor nodded, his mind spinning as he turned to leave. The night air had grown cold, biting against his skin as he walked home. The city lights shone indifferently overhead, oblivious to the journey he’d just taken. He felt exhausted, like he’d left pieces of himself behind on those crowded streets.

Back in his apartment, he followed the instructions, his hands steadying as he clicked “Play.”

The screen flickered, and there he was — a younger version of his father, laughing on a summer day, tossing a baseball with a boy who looked like Conor. The image was faintly grainy, a memory blurred by time but still achingly real. Conor watched, his heart swelling with something between grief and gratitude.

Hours passed as he took in every detail, reliving fragments of a life both familiar and distant. The gaps didn’t matter. In some intangible way, his father was there, lingering in the warmth of the memory.

As dawn crept into the room, Conor looked away from the screen, feeling a quiet peace settle within him. The ticking clock had stopped, the race finally over.

And he realized, with a bittersweet certainty, that he was ready to let go.