Бесплатный фрагмент - The light that remains

Contents

Prologue

When love becomes a technology,

we risk losing not just the person —

but what makes us human.

In Remember Me, Save Me…, you won’t find loud battles or the dazzling feats of hard science fiction. The battlefield here is more intimate: love versus time, soul versus algorithm, farewell versus preservation.

From the very first pages, the story enchants with an almost tangible silence — not the absence of sound, but the breath held just before saying something that truly matters. The author masterfully guides us from childhood love in sun-drenched Los Angeles to the mute tragedy of robotic immortality, without ever losing the heartbeat pulsing through every paragraph.

The protagonists — Sophia and Elias — walk a path familiar to many: from “everything is just beginning” to “why did it end like this?” But the twist is cruel — he dies, and she doesn’t even realize it.

Because next to her remains… him — but in code, in a shell, in an attempt to save instead of say goodbye.

This is not dystopia, nor sentimental sci-fi. It is a quiet, aching meditation on the substitution of the real.

The author takes their time — letting each scene breathe. From a wedding under a blooming tree to a final glance at a sketch “where the eyes still remembered pain” — every detail is steeped in emotion, silence, and the shadow of true light.

Especially powerful are Elias’s inner monologues. His thoughts aren’t cold — they tremble. He’s not searching for salvation — he’s just afraid to be forgotten. He is no hero — he is a human being. And that is the weight, and wonder, of this novel.

The ending doesn’t punish — it frees.

Sophia, who pulls the trigger on the robot, doesn’t destroy love.

She returns it to where it always truly lived — in the heart, not in memory.

Conclusion

Remember Me, Save Me…

is not a story about the future.

It is a poem about love —

too alive to be preserved in steel.

This novel deserves to be debated, written about, remembered.

It is not a book you return to for the plot —

but for the person who is gone…

and somehow still here.

Rating: 9.5 / 10

Recommended for publication and screen adaptation.

Prologue to Remember Me, Save Me…

When Light First Fell on the Page

Los Angeles.

May.

The sun was already awake before anyone else —

playing with golden specks on the wall, on the railings,

on the cheek of a boy lying face-down in his pillow.

Elias wasn’t asleep.

He was waiting.

Though he didn’t know — for what.

Maybe for that kind of morning

that feels like a blank page.

When you breathe — and everything is new.

He got up, took his sketchbook, pencil, and a water flask.

He walked through the neighborhood, where the air smelled of jasmine,

chlorine from the parking lot, and sun-warmed dust.

The world felt quietly alive —

as if it had just woken up and hadn’t yet turned on the noise of the streets.

And then — he saw her.

She was sitting beneath the tree next door,

in a light tank top, with a book,

and the sunlight touched her hair

as if it were painting her portrait itself.

He didn’t know her name.

She was new.

Had just moved in yesterday.

But he sat on the curb, opened his sketchbook —

and started to draw.

His fingers trembled.

Not from fear.

From discovery.

She suddenly looked up.

And saw him.

But didn’t look away.

She smiled.

And closed the book.

— “Are you drawing?”

— “Sometimes.”

— “Will you draw me?”

— “I already am.”

She came closer. Sat beside him.

Just like that.

As if she had known him forever.

And suddenly said:

— “I’m Sophia. And you?”

— “Elias.”

They fell silent.

Listening to the wind.

Each believing —

this day was the first.

Of something

that would last forever.

Because no one ever knows

in which gaze the spark is lit —

that one day becomes…

everything.

Chapter 1. Where Light Passes Through Leaves

The morning began slowly — lazily, as if it didn’t want to wake up. The hot sun was already touching the windows, spilling amber light across the walls. A gentle breeze, borrowed from the ocean, drifted through the rooms, stirring the curtains and bringing with it the scent of salt, eucalyptus, and sun-warmed wood.

Elias Marlowe didn’t wake from noise — but from light. It danced on the ceiling, scattered into golden rabbits, leapt across his cheeks. He lay still, thinking that this morning smelled different.

And it was true — someone had moved into the house next door yesterday. The adults had said it over dinner: a family with a daughter. From the north, maybe Seattle.

He got up, walked barefoot across the wooden floor, picked up his sketchbook, and stepped outside. In his hand — ordinary pencils. He was eight, but sometimes he felt older — when he looked at the sky, listened to the cicadas crackle, or drew things no one else noticed.

The yard was warm, the grass prickled underfoot, somewhere a sprinkler hissed, and above the orange trees, bees buzzed lazily. Elias settled on the porch steps and began sketching something unclear — maybe a tree, maybe a face, maybe the morning itself.

And then he saw her.

She was sitting under a tree in the neighbor’s yard — a little way off — in a blue dress, holding a book with her knees hugged to her chest. Her honey-colored hair was loose, strands lifted by the wind, making her seem to sway like the leaves above.

She didn’t move — just ran her finger along the page’s edge.

Elias didn’t know why he couldn’t look away. Maybe it was the light. Maybe it was how quiet she was. He didn’t know. He just started to draw. Fast, like he was afraid he’d forget. His hands moved on their own, and his heart beat a little louder than usual.

He didn’t even notice that she saw him — and smiled.

The ball. It was his old blue ball, left in the yard two days ago. It suddenly rolled — wind? angle? fate? — and came to rest at her feet.

Sophia picked it up like it was an artifact from another era.

“Is this yours?” she asked. Her voice was slightly husky, but warm.

He nodded and walked over.

“I’m Elias.”

“Sophia. We moved in yesterday.”

They stood on the edge between two lawns. Her grass was thicker. His smelled like dust. He didn’t know what to say, but the ball was a good excuse to begin.

“Wanna go for a walk? I’ll show you something.”

They walked along the creek. A small California stream that dries up by August — but now, it gurgled — uncertain, like a child learning to speak.

Sunlight filtered through rosemary and sage. It touched their skin — not scorching, but like a butterfly’s wing. The air smelled of dust and salt.

He led her to a place he’d never shown anyone — his “secret place.” A little nook between two slopes, with water murmuring below and a tree above that looked like an umbrella. He often sat there alone, drawing, dreaming. Now — they sat there together.

“Do you always draw?” she asked.

“Almost. Sometimes I just watch how things breathe.”

“Can you hear how light grows?”

He turned to her. She was staring ahead, where the sky met the sea.

Elias smiled. Slowly, like it was the most important thing he’d ever said.

“I think I can now.”

They sat in silence. A breeze played with her hair. His sketchbook lay open beside him — on a page where she sat beneath a tree, reading.

And then everything felt real: the sky, the sea, the ball, the silence. Something rang between them — like sunlight caught between palms.

And in that shimmering moment, a friendship was born. Maybe more.

The next morning came just as slowly. The world was damp with dew. Leaves gleamed like lacquer, and on Elias’s bedroom window, a tiny butterfly rested. It moved its wings as if breathing — and he felt he wanted to breathe the same way: softly, quietly, in rhythm with the world.

He took not only his sketchbook but also a jar of water, brushes, a few watercolors, and an old bandana — in case he had to sit in the sun for long.

This time, he stepped into the garden with confidence — as if someone was waiting.

Sophia was there.

She sat in the grass, three books around her like animals: one she petted, one she flipped through, one she simply watched.

She looked up and smiled — not the polite smile for strangers, but the kind your body already remembers.

“Wanna see?” she asked, nodding to the books.

“Only if you show me the one where the dragon lives,” Elias said seriously.

She laughed. The sound was like a crystal falling into water.

“And you?” she asked. “Are you drawing today?”

He sat beside her — not too close, not too far. The breeze smelled of lemon rind and wet soil. He opened his sketchbook and showed her the drawing from yesterday — where she sat beneath the tree.

Sophia froze. Looked at it for a long time without breathing.

“That’s me?”

“That’s the light through you,” he said, surprised by his own words.

She closed her eyes — the way people do when they don’t know how to say thank you.

They went walking closer to noon. Took oranges, a bottle of water, and his old collie, Morrison. The dog was wise, fluffy, and limped slightly — but his eyes were like a child’s.

They followed the path along the creek, where their friendship had been born the day before. Today it felt different — as if the place had become part of them, remembered their steps.

“Do you think trees have names?” Sophia asked.

“Only old ones. Young ones haven’t earned them yet,” Elias said thoughtfully.

“Then this one’s Elvie. It’s watching us and knows we’re not just kids.”

He looked at her: hair stuck to her cheek, ink-stained fingers, a strip of sunlight on her nose.

Not just kids, he thought. And felt a thought being born — still without words, but already true.

They returned near evening — tired but light.

As they said goodbye, Sophia touched his hand — quickly, as if by accident, but he remembered it down to his fingertips.

She said:

“Tomorrow I’ll show you my secret. But promise me you won’t laugh.”

“And you promise you won’t disappear,” he whispered. But even at eight, he knew — what truly matters always fears disappearing just a little.

Morning was clear, like water in a glass. Light didn’t just fall — it spread, caressed, promised.

Elias came early and crouched by their tree — Elvie, as Sophia named it. In his hands — two thin stems woven into rings. One slightly larger, the other smaller. He had learned this in spring, but never thought he’d give them to anyone.

Sophia came out with a sheet of paper covered in colored pencil drawings… of guests. A penguin in a hat, a dog with a bow, a cat with a cake, a sun with eyelashes, and ice cream eating itself.

“They all came,” she said seriously, sitting beside him.

“Then we better begin,” Elias nodded.

They played wedding. Not pretend — but real — as only children can when they believe every detail is reality.

“You have to give a speech,” she whispered.

“Okay.”

He stood, held up a twig like a microphone, and said:

“I, Elias, promise… to always share the last piece of chocolate. Even if it has nuts. And also — not to laugh if you spill juice on your socks. And if we ever get lost — I’ll find us. Always.”

Sophia nodded. Her eyes glowed.

“I, Sophia, promise… to always listen, even when you say strange things. And not to be afraid of your drawings, even if they have too much rain. And to remember how your laugh sounds. Even if I grow very old.”

They put the rings on each other — green, dewy.

“And now…” she said, pausing, as if asking the world for permission. “…now, they’re supposed to kiss,” Elias whispered.

He leaned forward. She met him halfway.

The kiss — a brush, like wind, like a petal on the lips. But something fluttered in his chest. Like a door opening into a warm room.

They pulled back, both blushing.

“That… was strange,” she said.

“But good,” he added.

When the sun sank toward the hills, they sat quietly, hand in hand. Cartoons, phones, grown-up talk on porches — they didn’t matter. They had each other, a green ring, and the sense that this day would be remembered — like a song heard once but never forgotten.

Elias watched her profile in the sunset and thought: If the world stopped right now — I wouldn’t rush it.

Late that night, when the house was still and adults whispered, Elias lay in bed, clutching his sketchbook. The nightlight painted soft patches on the ceiling. Outside, Los Angeles rustled: wind in palm trees, distant cars, a faraway dog.

He took out the drawing. Sophia under the tree, her hair golden threads, eyes on the book. He stared at it for a long time — as if something important was hidden inside, something you could hear if you stayed silent long enough.

And then — a flash in his chest. He remembered. Not the kiss. No. Her hand. That warm, thin hand, a bit sticky from orange juice, a chipped pinky nail, and a gentle squeeze when she held his.

That hand — he felt it now, on his.

He pressed the drawing to his lips and kissed it — gently, afraid to wake something inside himself. Then carefully folded the page and tucked it under his pillow, like some hide unsent letters.

He stood and went to the window.

The night sky wasn’t ordinary. Tonight, it breathed.

The stars looked closer, not gazing down — but listening. The sky felt deep, like a thought you can’t say but fully feel. Its color — not black, but blue with violet — like watercolors on someone’s cheek.

And the Moon wasn’t alone. Near her, barely visible, was a star — the one that only appears in summer, when the air smells of lemons and grass.

Elias didn’t know why it was so beautiful.

But his heart told him — it was because, for the first time, the day hadn’t ended.

It stayed alive inside him. Continued — in the drawing, in his fingers, in the sky.

He thought: Even if one day I forget her scent, her touch, even her voice… this evening will still remember. The sky will remember it all.

He fell asleep, not under a blanket — but under something else: the feeling that something big had begun.

And in his dream, he didn’t know who he was: a child, a boy in love, an artist, or a man-to-be who would remember.

But one thing he knew for sure: Light does grow. Somewhere inside him. Every day.

Chapter 2. When Chocolate Means Something

Several years had passed. Sophia was twelve. Elias — almost thirteen. They still lived next door. Still walked the same paths. But now, it wasn’t just laughter and games between them — there were pauses. Thin as the whisper between notes. And in those pauses — something new was taking root. Something they didn’t yet know how to name.

Spring in Los Angeles took its time. The days were warm, but damp. Jasmine bloomed, and the evening air carried the scent of beginnings.

Elias sat by the window, doing homework — but his mind wasn’t on equations. In front of him lay a bar of chocolate, wrapped in foil with tiny hearts. And a note:

“If you want it — it’s yours. But only if you really want it.”

He rewrote it three times. Then tore it up. The fourth version he kept. Wrapped it. Slipped it into his pocket. Took it out. Put it back again.

It was almost a confession. Or the echo of one. But to Elias — it mattered more than words ever could.

Sophia was waiting beneath the same tree — Elvie. She’d changed. Her hair was usually tied back now, a leather bracelet on her wrist, stamped with the letters SL. Her eyes were deeper, her gaze quieter — but when she smiled, the world still felt brand new, like a book just unwrapped.

“Hi,” she said. “Hey.”

A pause. He wanted to say something clever. Or funny. But instead, he simply handed her the bundle.

“It’s… nothing special. Just chocolate.”

Sophia unwrapped it and read the note. Silently. He didn’t dare look up.

“I do want it,” she said suddenly.

He looked at her — and for the first time, noticed the pink blooming on her cheeks. It was like color on his watercolor paper when he added too much water. It spread. It lived.

They sat under the tree, sharing chocolate. Talking about nothing: school, funny teachers, the classmate with a chicken-shaped backpack. But every word felt like a step on a bridge between them. A delicate bridge. And they both knew — one step closer, and it wouldn’t be a game anymore.

“Do you remember our wedding?” Sophia asked suddenly.

Elias laughed. “Of course. We had a penguin guest and grass rings.”

“Do you still draw?” “Only the things I can’t say.”

She was quiet. Then whispered: “Draw me. Now. How I am now.”

He opened his sketchbook. Looked. But didn’t draw.

“Close your eyes first,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t draw what I see. I draw what I remember.”

Later, when the evening folded around them like a warm blanket, and Sophia had gone home, Elias opened the sketchbook again. And beneath the first line of today’s drawing: “Sophia, 12. Almost laughing” — he wrote in small, neat letters:

“Chocolate isn’t food. It’s a way to stay in someone’s memory.”

Sophia still held the wrapper in her fingers, as if it were a letter just arrived from another world. She wasn’t in a rush to finish the chocolate — not because she didn’t want it, but because this wasn’t about taste. It was about gesture. Meaning. Warmth.

“Do you… give chocolate often?” she asked, pretending to sound casual. But her voice trembled a little.

“Only when it’s everything I can’t say,” he replied — and went quiet, as if he’d said too much.