Forever and a Morning

The elevator doors sighed open like they’d been holding their breath for years. “Seventh floor,” said the attendant, sounding as though he’d rehearsed that line since birth. “New Horizons Biotech — straight ahead.”

Martha Lindon smoothed the front of her floral dress, which she’d bought in 2027 and still swore looked “nearly new.”

She leaned toward her husband. “Do I look all right?”

“Darlin’, you look beautiful,” Henry said, his voice gravelly but kind.

“Don’t lie to me, Henry Lindon,” she said with mock sternness. “I can see the lines in your eyes from here.”

“They’re laugh lines,” he countered. “You put most of them there.”

Inside, a young receptionist greeted them, her smile bright enough to power a small city. “Mr. and Mrs. Lindon? Dr. Veer will see you shortly.”

They sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by polished chrome, soft lights, and the faint hum of artificial air that always smelled of citrus and ozone.

“Smells like a spaceship,” Henry whispered.

“Maybe it is,” Martha said, half-smiling. “Maybe they’ll send us to Mars instead.”

Moments later, the door slid open, and a tall man in a silver-gray suit appeared, looking freshly printed from a fashion catalog. “Ah, the Lindons! Please, come in.”

His office gleamed. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, though Martha suspected even dust particles would’ve been too intimidated to land there.

“You’re seventy-eight, Mr. Lindon, and seventy-three, Mrs. Lindon?” he asked, consulting a sleek tablet.

“That’s right,” Henry said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. His back gave a soft crack in agreement.

Dr. Veer smiled with professional warmth. “You’ve had several health challenges, I see.”

Henry chuckled dryly. “If by ‘challenges’ you mean my joints have declared independence, then yes.”

“That’s precisely why New Horizons exists,” said Veer. “We don’t treat pain, we transcend it. We offer a new kind of living.”

He leaned forward. “We build living bodies, biological, but enhanced. You would be transferred into them, your mind, your memories, every trace of who you are perfectly preserved. You awaken young again, free of pain, illness, and decay.”

Martha blinked. “You mean we’d live again?”

“Yes,” Veer said smoothly. “Together, if you choose. As if time had turned backward.”

He led them down a gleaming corridor into a showroom that felt more like a temple. Beneath glass domes stood human forms, young, radiant, serene.

One young man lounged in a tracksuit. Another woman wore a shimmering red gown. A couple posed beneath a digital sunset, hands intertwined, smiles frozen mid-laughter.

“They look so real,” Martha whispered.

“They are real,” Veer replied. “Real flesh, real touch, real emotion, just without the frailties of age.”

Henry studied the beach couple. “They look twenty.”

“They are,” said Veer. “And for couples, the transfer happens together. You’d wake side by side. Like the first morning of your honeymoon.”

Martha’s hand trembled on Henry’s arm. “Henry, it’s like a miracle.”

Henry frowned. “And what would it cost?”

Veer folded his hands. “Twenty-five thousand dollars per person.”

Henry let out a low whistle. “That’s not a miracle, that’s a mortgage.”

“I’m afraid we can’t extend credit,” Veer said. “Government regulations. We are, after all, dealing with consciousness, not currency.”

Martha looked down. “We only have enough for one.”

Henry’s heart sank. “Then maybe…”

“No,” she said quickly, tears pooling in her eyes. “You take it, Henry. You’ve suffered more. You deserve peace.”

He shook his head. “Not without you.”

Her hand found his, paper-thin but warm. “One of us has to be free. Please.”

That night, Henry wandered into a bar a few blocks away, the kind that still used wooden stools and neon lights to remind people of simpler times. He ordered a whiskey, neat, and nursed it like an old friend.

“You all right, sir?” asked the bartender.

Henry exhaled. “Not yet. But I might be if I can find a way to double some money.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow, then nodded toward a side door. “Back room. Ask for Reva.”

Behind the door was a haze of smoke and whispered tension. A woman with sharp eyes and a deck of cards looked up as he entered. “You here to play or to pray?”

“Play,” Henry said, pulling up a chair. “And maybe a little of both.”

The game started quietly. Small bets, murmured calls. Henry was careful, cautious. Then luck, fickle creature that it was, decided to flirt. He won a hand. Then another.

He began to hope.

Then came the pain, sharp, deep, gnawing at his chest. His cards wavered in his trembling hands.

Reva noticed. “You sure you’re up for this, old-timer?”

“I just need to win once more,” he said. “For my wife. We wanted new bodies. A new start. But I can’t afford the both of us.”

Reva studied him for a moment, then shuffled the deck slowly. “Your bet.”

Henry pushed all his chips forward. “Everything.”

The table went quiet. Reva raised a brow, then called.

When the cards turned, she had three aces. Henry had three kings. The room stilled.

Then Reva smiled softly and folded her hands. “You win.”

Henry blinked. “I…what?”

She gathered the cards. “Some things are worth more than rules. Go get your new start, Mr. Lindon.”

The next morning, Martha waited in the clinic, her hands wringing her purse as if it might talk her out of her nerves.

Dr. Veer entered, tablet in hand. “He’s ready now.”

She swallowed hard. “Under that sheet…that’s his old body, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Veer said. “But the new one will join you shortly.”

The door opened, and a young man stepped through — tall, strong, smiling like someone who’d just remembered how to breathe.

“Martha,” he said, voice breaking. “It’s me.”

She rose slowly, eyes wide. “Henry? Oh my…you look…”

“Alive,” he finished, laughing softly. “No pain, no cane, no pills. It’s like waking from a long, bad dream. We can start over, Martha. We can do everything we missed.”

She smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened. “You look wonderful, Henry. But look…”

She lifted her frail, trembling hand beside his, her skin thin and pale next to his smooth, unlined youth. “You see?”

His joy faltered. “I do.”

Veer cleared his throat delicately. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Lindon, there are some final documents to sign.”

Henry followed him numbly, the sound of his own youthful footsteps echoing strangely in his ears. On the gurney nearby lay his old body, the one that had carried Martha’s groceries, held her through long nights, and reached for her hand every morning.

He stood over it for a long while, then whispered, “If youth must come without her…I don’t want it.”

Later, the attendants wheeled the unused model, the handsome young beach body, back into storage, its eyes closed, its promise unclaimed.

And in the bright office once more, an aged man and woman stood side by side, fingers entwined.

“Martha,” Henry said softly. “If our days come with pain, they still come with you. That’s enough.”

She smiled through her tears. “It always was.”

Outside, the elevator doors closed with a gentle sigh, and the attendant said, “Ground floor and the world as it is.”

And together, the Lindons rode back down, hand in hand, into forever and a morning.