I miss her emerald eyes.
The upload process transferred personalities perfectly. Old recordings of her voice informed the synthesizer; her new body was sculpted after scans of twenty year old photos.
The eyes were never quite the same, always left somewhere in the uncanny valley.
“It will be me, Howard.” She had known my feelings, but her fatal virus had left us no choice.
She walks through the door in her new, engineered body. She moves like my wife, says my name like my wife.
Her flat matte green eyes gaze at me.
I shudder, and leave it there, alone.