The coffee shop Helena suggested was a small three-story building with dim lighting and a wooden floor. I found Helena sitting at a two-person table in the back. She was reading a book, and didn’t notice my presence until the moment I sat down on the chair opposite hers.

“Good evening, miss Lucia,” she told me, closing the book on her hands. I recognized the title as Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. I had a similar copy on my bookshelf.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as an Austen fan, Professor Norwood.”

Helena laughed. “You do know I’m not really a Professor, don’t you?”

I furrowed my brow. “You aren’t?”

She shook her head in response. “People call me that, when I give lectures at colleges and such. It’s supposed to give my words more credibility, or something, not that I agree,” then she lowered her voice a little before saying the next bit: “In my life so far, I’ve often found the most valuable lessons to be taught outside the academy.”

Was there a deeper meaning to her words? Maybe, or maybe not, I can’t really tell. But the way she spoke to me, with a voice so soft it seemed barely more than a whisper, that caused an effect on me. It was her presence. It made me feel restless, somehow.

“Why Austen?” I teased.

The redhead in front of me smiled. She pushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I guess you can say I’m reading it on recommendation. Someone once told me this was your favorite book, years ago.”

Mine?

Well, sure, I was an Austen fan when I was thirteen, but how could she have known it? Did father really tell her that? How was it that this woman knew those sorts of details about me, if I only just met her that morning?

“He never told me about you,” I said.

“I have to say… that makes me a little sad,” said Helena. “Although maybe it’s just that he couldn’t. There are all sorts of confidentiality pacts involved when you work with human connectomes.”

As she said that, a waiter came to our table. I ordered coffee, black. Helena ordered nothing, naturally.

“He did talk a lot about you,” said Helena, once the waiter was gone. “All the time, when we were alone as he worked on my skin and other defective parts, he would tell stories of your mother and you. You were loved, Lucia, and I have to say I envied you for that.”

“How come?” I asked, surprised. “What about your…”

Oh.

Shit.

Helena look saddened as I said it. Of course she did. The articles I had read about her said nothing about her family. It wasn’t hard to guess why, not after what she had just told me. And yet I went and asked about them anyway. Real smooth, Lucia, you idiot.

The waiter brought me my coffee.

“They didn’t want me,” she said, finally. “It happens sometimes, right?”

Why?

The question was on the tip of my tongue, begging me to be asked. Why is it that I wanted so desperately to know more about her? Because it involved my father? Or for some other reason, something I didn’t yet want to acknowledge? And she looked so sad. I swear it took me a lot of restraint not to go up to her and embrace her. She had looked so strong and secure during the morning lecture, yet when I mentioned her family, she looked helpless and weak. I didn’t like seeing her like that.

“The coffee here is really good,” I said, mostly to change the topic of conversation.

“Is it?” Helena asked, trying to recompose herself. “I don’t really like bitter stuff. I’ve always found coffee to smell better than it tastes. But that was before I was replicated, of course. Now I can only smell it.

“Do you miss food?” I asked her, hoping it wasn’t prying too much into her personal life.

“Not much,” she answered, honestly. “I can still eat if I want to, you know, but it’s a complete waste of food. And it’s a bother to clean up my insides afterwards, so I usually avoid it. Not breathing is funny, though. I can’t hold my breath anymore, because I don’t have any.”

I chuckled. Those were the kinds of details I’d never have thought about, back when I studied connectomes in school. It was funny, learning all of that.

“Do you still feel like you’re the same person? Like, from before replication?”

Helena nodded. “Of course I do.”

“Rationally, though, I know that it’s impossible,” she explained. “The original, organic Helena Norwood died for replication, and I was built with what is essentially a mirror image of her brain. I’m not the ‘same person’, in the sense that if there were three other replicas of me with the same connectome, none of us would be more real than the other, yet we would all feel as if we were the original Helena Norwood. Her complexity, her subjectivity, everything that makes her what she is, I have it too. But the current me was born after replication. And if I was ever shut down for some reason, I believe that this would mark the end of the current me, even if they could recreate me with all my memories so far.”

“Don’t you think it’s your memories that make you who you are?” I asked.

“I do, yes,” said Helena. “Or at least, memories are a part of who I am. But there’s more to it. There’s a sense of self, a sense of being, which only exists for as long as you’re alive, whether in the organic sense, or in the replica sense. That… is what your father told me, once.”

Helena stopped talking. My half-empty cup of coffee was growing cold beside me on the table, ignored. We exchanged glances. There it was, again, the feeling of restlessness. It was as if I needed to do something, but I didn’t know what. She had that effect on me. She stared into my eyes as if tempting me to do something irrational.

“Didn’t you…” she began, teasingly, “…come here because you wanted to ask about him? If I recall, up to now all your questions were about me.”

“Yes, right,” I pretended to sip my coffee in order to hide my embarrassment. I knew I must have been blushing, because my cheeks felt hot, and I was thankful that blushes didn’t show as much in my face due to my skin color. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, “you’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

I smiled. Oh god, if I wasn’t embarrassed before, I would be now that Helena had just called me cute.

“Are you hitting on me?” I asked, surprised.

“Only if it’s working,” said Helena, smiling back.

The cheek of that girl! Can you believe someone actually says that? And the worst part of it is that I had half a mind to actually say “yes,” then see where this goes.

We were in silence for a while, just looking each other in the eyes. I felt that restlessness again, but now it was mixed with desire.

Then I remembered my father’s death, and my promise to myself that I would stay away from it all, and I had to shake myself free from the restless feeling. I broke eye contact, turning my face down and sideways, not looking at anything in particular.

“I don’t want to,” I said.

The smile disappeared from Helena’s face.

“You’re right,” she said, sounding serious. What was that expression on her face? Disappointment? Sadness? Neither of these? I couldn’t tell. Then she said: “I was out of line here, I’m very sorry.”

At that moment, I felt a pang of remorse inside my chest. I had probably hurt Helena, hadn’t I? And the worst is that I could never tell her the reason I rejected her, then. I don’t want to get involved with you, because you’re a replica and you remind me of my father’s death? I can’t say something like that, I’m not that oblivious.

“Would you still like to ask me about your father?” she said. There was definitely a bit of hurt in her voice, wasn’t there? Or was I imagining things?

There was a long moment of silence again. Helena was waiting for me to say something, but I was at a loss for words. Once the silence had dragged on for long enough, she told me that I could message her anytime if I still had any questions, apologized once more, then left.

Am I dumb?

Did I just reject the girl I’m very obviously into?

For what reason, exactly?

Abigail was right. Why was I making such a big deal of this? It was simple.

I got up from my chair. I had to fix this while I could. So I started running toward the door.

Outside, it was raining. Helena was five meters or so away from me, on the other side of the street. She had no umbrella, and her hair and clothes were getting drenched from the pouring rain. I didn’t have an umbrella either, but I didn’t care. I shouted:

“Helena, wait!”

She stopped walking and turned around. I ran across the street, stopping the cars and earning myself an angry yell from one of the passengers. I didn’t care.

Helena was standing right in front of me, looking puzzled.

“I’m sorry, I was wrong,” I said, hurriedly. “The thing is, I do want to.”

The next thing I did was go up to her and kiss her under the rain.