Arjun had always known a life of absence. While the world saw a bright, composed young man raised by a loving father, what they didn’t see was the hollow in his heart — the space where a mother’s love should have lived.
He never knew Mahalakshmi, his mother. She died during childbirth. His father, Vishnu, did his best to raise him with unwavering devotion. But a father’s love, however deep, could never replace the comfort of a mother’s touch — the lullabies, the soft hands on his forehead when he was ill, the bedtime stories, the scent of her saree.
There were moments in his childhood when Arjun would stare at her photo for hours. Her smile was kind, her eyes were like his. He wondered what her voice sounded like, how it might feel to fall asleep in her lap. But all he had were stories from his father — beautiful, tear-stained memories passed down like heirlooms.
Still, the ache remained. Quiet. Deep. Constant.
At 23, Arjun was studying engineering in Chennai. One day, he attended a futuristic tech expo with his college friends. While they were drawn to the flashy booths and robots, Arjun wandered off, drawn to a quieter stall tucked away in a corner. A sign above it read:
“MemoryPort: Connect Beyond Life”
Inside, he met a peculiar man with silvered hair and eyes that held too much wisdom — Dr. Matrix.
Arjun was skeptical. “What is this? Some kind of VR?”
Matrix smiled knowingly. “It’s beyond VR. It’s a tool — a bridge. It allows you to see and hear someone you’ve lost. Not through magic, but through AI, emotional resonance, and memory reconstruction.”
Arjun’s breath caught. "Is it… real?” he asked.
“As real as your memory of them,” Matrix replied. “You’ll need something connected to them — ashes, hair, a deeply personal item.”
Without thinking twice, Arjun said, “I want to try.”
Matrix handed him a slim case. Inside were a transparent lens visor, wireless earpods, and a memory dock. “Use it with caution,” he warned. “The emotional and neurological connection is intense. And remember — it’s a reflection, not the actual soul. It can’t replace reality.”
Arjun nodded, heart pounding.
That night, alone in his room, Arjun retrieved the small pot that contained his mother’s ashes. His father was away on a work trip.
He took a pinch of the ashes and placed them inside the dock. Hands shaking, he wore the lens, inserted the earpods, and waited.
At first, silence. Then — light. A shimmer. And she appeared. Mahalakshmi.
She stood beside the window in a soft pastel saree, hair tied in a braid. Her eyes sparkled. She looked directly at him.
“Arjun,” she said softly, tears glistening in her eyes. “My son… you’ve grown so beautifully.”
He gasped. His knees buckled. “Amma?”
“Yes, darling.”
Her voice. Her smile. The way she tilted her head — it felt so natural, so real, it undid him. He cried like he hadn’t in years. She held out her hand, and though he couldn’t touch her, he reached anyway.
That night, they spoke for hours. About everything and nothing. She told him stories she had never lived to share — memories passed down through the AI, reconstructed from Arjun’s longing, imagination, and genetic trace.
Every night from then on, Arjun would return home, close the door, and slip into that world. A world where he had his mother.
Weeks passed.
But the joy came at a price.
Arjun began to suffer from eye strain. His vision blurred. Migraines took over. He ignored the signs. Nothing could take her away again.
Until one night, the pain grew unbearable. He collapsed, writhing, clutching his face.
Vishnu found him in a panic, rushed him to the hospital. The doctors said it was neural overstimulation — something had caused his brain and optic nerves to overwork.
Vishnu confronted him. “What have you been using?”
Shaking, Arjun confessed everything.
For a long time, Vishnu said nothing. But that night, after Arjun fell asleep, he activated the device himself.
And he saw her. Mahalakshmi.
The love of his life, lost too soon. She looked at him, a tear sliding down her cheek.
“You’ve taken care of him so well,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
He couldn’t speak.
She smiled sadly. “But he’s hurting himself. You both are. I am gone, Vishnu. Let me go. Let him live.”
The next evening, Arjun tried to use the device again. His father stopped him.
“You saw her,” Arjun said bitterly. “Why can’t I?”
“Because she told me to stop you,” Vishnu replied.
Arjun stared. “I need her…”
“You have her — in your heart, your soul, your kindness. But you also have a future. And it’s not inside a machine.”
Tears welled in Arjun’s eyes. “Just one last time…”
Vishnu relented — but only allowed him to hear her voice through the earpods.
Her voice came, soft and strong:
“Arjun… you’re my son. My heartbeat. But I can’t walk this journey with you anymore. I belong to the stars now. You must walk with your head high — not backwards into shadows.”
Arjun broke. He wept as he slowly took off the lens, held the device in his hand… and smashed it to pieces.
Shards flew across the floor.
A silence filled the room.
Weeks later, as his health recovered, Vishnu gave Arjun a small box. Inside was a silver ring — simple, delicate, and worn.
“It was hers,” Vishnu said. “She wore it every day. She’d want you to have it now.”
Arjun held it close, feeling her warmth in the cool metal.
The next morning, he woke up before dawn. He walked to the beach, the ring in his pocket, the urn in his hands.
The waves whispered. The wind was gentle.
He opened the urn and let her ashes scatter into the sea. They swirled, danced in the air, then faded into the horizon.
He stood there, long after the sun had risen.
“Goodbye, Amma,” he whispered.
“I’ll live. For real. For you.”
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