During her illness, Trina and Emerson had discussed what type of urn to get for her, but the talk had been inconclusive. Something understated but respectful, nice to look at but not gaudy.

 

Now that she was gone, the final decision was Emerson’s. He went to the showroom with Trina’s sister Quinn.

 

The aging salesperson’s name was Frederick, and he shuffled around with rather artificial cheer.

 

“The practice of putting our loved ones’ remains in urns is as old as humanity itself! Of course the form has changed, as today we have somewhat different ideas about what it means to be human.”

 

Emerson and Quinn looked over the options in Frederick’s storeroom.

 

Quinn began the conversation. “Trina talked about something minimal.”

 

Frederick nodded. “These are simple enough that someone walking through your home might not even notice them. Obviously taller stands out more, depending on how you want the urn to fit in.”

 

The entire process was overwhelming and Emerson just stared. Deep down he preferred the urns with more vibrancy, more presence.

 

“Let’s talk about Trina’s personality,” said Frederick. “So we can decide which option might suit her best.”

 

“She liked being outside,” Quinn said pointedly. “She liked going on adventures.”

 

“That is certainly a nice trait to remember! Do you want her urn to show that side of her?”

 

They had discussed this. An energetic pose, Trina had suggested. Like I’m climbing a mountain!

 

“No,” Emerson said. “I think something more sedate. To be just part of the house.” Quinn crossed her arms over her chest and made a sound of disapproval.

 

“Of course,” said Frederick. “It’s your choice.”

 

“What about these?” Emerson had turned the corner and found a line of urns that were taller and more shapely. Not glamorous, exactly. Definitely more expensive.

 

“Well yes! These are very popular choices, especially when the deceased is so tragically young.”

 

Emerson reached out to touch an urn that reminded him of Trina when she had been even younger. Quinn turned him slightly away so Frederick might not hear them.

 

“Emerson. I know this is a lot. That’s why Trina wanted me to come with you. But these aren’t what she talked about. This isn’t what she wanted.”

 

“I’m the one who has to live with it for the rest of my life. I think I should get some input.”

 

Quinn shook her head and clucked softly. “That is exactly what she told me you would say.”

 

Emerson motioned to Frederick. “I like this one. The blonde.”

 

The urn he had chosen would surely be among the most expensive in the showroom. She was taller than Trina and curvy where Trina had been slight. Emerson could not tell how she would walk or move until she was activated at home, but she looked graceful on the display rack.

 

Frederick beamed. “An excellent choice! The next step, of course, is for you to provide us with Trina’s memory chip so we can install it before delivery.”

 

Emerson handed over the angular piece of plastic and circuitry that he and Trina had spent forever debating.

 

You have to decide which parts of me you want most. It will be forever.

 

This memory hurt, and Emerson faltered.

 

Quinn took the chip from him. “I’ll take care of this. Go get some air.”

 

The urn would not be delivered until the next night, and Emerson spent the day judging himself. He remembered his grandfather’s death some thirty years ago and how back then urns had been simply shiny vases into which they had put ashes. Once upon a time, death had been physical and personality eventually just a thing of memory.

 

Trina’s urn would only be able to speak a handful of the sentences Trina had recorded onto her chip. Perhaps they would be a different comfort in the urn he had chosen.

 

He heard the door open.

 

The face in the evening darkness was unexpected.

 

“Frederick! I’m sorry — I didn’t realize... are you delivering the urn yourself? Where is she?”

 

Frederick’s mouth moved, but the voice was Trina’s:

 

“Hi Emerson! I love you!”

 

Emerson craned his neck to see if there was someone or something else out in the night.

 

“I don’t understand. Frederick – what are you doing here? Where is the urn I bought? The young woman?”

 

Trina’s voice came out of the old man, whose salesroom smile remained false and unnaturally personable.

 

“I asked Quinn to see if there was a way to buy the cheapest thing they had. I know you’ll waste money on something too expensive that we don’t need! I hope whatever Quinn bought for me is okay, even if it’s not what you would have chosen.”

 

Emerson’s mind reeled, but while he tried to process what he was hearing, Frederick stepped past him and into the house where Trina had died.

 

“I think I want to stand by the back door,” said Trina’s voice. “So it will be like I am looking out at the woods.”

 

Then his phone was ringing with Quinn’s number.

 

“Quinn! What’s happening here?”

 

“Trina wanted me to find a better choice. Did you even realize that Frederick was an urn? It’s part of their sales gimmick. He was actually the cheapest option in the store, although there was a fee to erase his ‘salesman’ memory when they installed Trina’s chip. Oh: she gave me a different chip to use instead of yours. I’m sorry. She said she had some things to say that were hard to record with you.”

 

Now Frederick was standing by the window looking out onto the nightlit forest, and his lined face had settled into something like satisfaction.

 

“I hope you miss me, Emerson,” he said in Trina’s voice. “I’ll be right here, forever.”

 

Emerson said, “Trina, if that’s you...”

 

His voice triggered the urn’s indefinite repeat function, and the memory chip reset itself.

 

“I hope you miss me, Emerson. I’ll be right here, forever.”