‘You're a replica,’ she said to him, gently, trying not to bruise his feelings. ‘You're not him. The Original. His soul is still buried somewhere with his bones, or with the plants growing over his grave. You're something new. Like an epithelial cell shedded - an echo.’ She reached his hand toward his. ‘This doesn't have to be bad. You can make more choices, take more chances - do things he never would have been able to do in his time. But these thoughts, these memories - they don't belong to us. They belong to the past.’ He reached his hand toward hers. ‘It’s a choice - not an obligation. We don’t have to choose their pathway. We can make our own.’ His hand clasped hers.