“ANDY and Death /// Version–2”

Andy still had 23.4 years left.
At least that’s what the thin strip on his wrist claimed.
“Remaining time,” it said above the number that updated every night.
He hated the thing.
“You could just take it off,” said Biggi.
“And pretend nothing’s there?” Andy shook his head. “That’s exactly what people used to do.”
Biggi shrugged. “And it worked. Most of them still lived.”
Andy gave a short laugh. “Lived… or waited?”



The city was full of them.
People with numbers on their skin, on displays, in contact lenses.
Some wore them openly, almost proudly. Others hid them.
And then there were those without.
The Kuköms.
Perfect bodies. No display. No deadline.
Time no longer mattered to them.



“You have the appointment, right?” Biggi asked at some point.
Andy nodded.
“And?”
He hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
Biggi looked at him for a long time. “You’ve been obsessed with this for years.”
“Yes…” he said quietly. “Because I’m afraid.”



The institute was white, silent, and too clean.
A Kuköm received him.
His face was flawless. Not beautiful in the traditional sense—more… final.
As if every form of development had already been completed.
“Andy,” he said kindly. “Please sit down.”
“How long… have you been alive?” Andy asked.
“312 years.”
Andy swallowed.
“So you want to switch,” said the Kuköm.
“I don’t want to die.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
Andy stayed silent.



“We don’t only replace your body,” the Kuköm continued.
“We change your conditions.”
“I know.”
“Do you also know what you will lose?”
Andy frowned. “Disease. Decay. Fear.”
The Kuköm smiled slightly. “That too. But I meant something else.”



A screen lit up.
Andy saw a man.
Himself.
Older. Tired. But alive.
Next to him: Biggi.
They were laughing.
An ordinary moment. Nothing special.
And that was exactly why it hit him.



“A possible outcome,” said the Kuköm.
The image changed.
Andy—successful. Rich. Alone.
Then another:
Andy—sick. Dying young.
Then another:
Andy—a father. Overwhelmed. Happy.
“You may know this,” said the Kuköm. “Possible lives.”
Andy nodded slowly. “And as a Kuköm?”



The screen went black.
Then:
Andy.
Unchanged.
Decades. Centuries.
People came. People went.
Biggi was no longer there.
No one stayed for long.
Only him.



“We do not die,” said the Kuköm calmly.
“But everything else does.”
Andy stared at the image.
“Do you get used to it?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
The Kuköm didn’t answer immediately.
“Then you stop counting.”
Andy looked at his wrist.
23.4 years.
A ridiculous number.
And suddenly… a precious one.



“If I don’t do it…” he began.
“Then you will die,” said the Kuköm.
“And if I do it?”
“Then you won’t.”
Pause.
“But you will lose everything that can only exist in the finite.”
Andy thought of Biggi.
Of conversations that had endings—precisely because they did.
Of choices that mattered because time was limited.



“May I leave?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“And come back?”
The Kuköm nodded. “As long as your number is still running.”
Outside, the world was loud. Messy. Alive.
Biggi was waiting.
“And?” she asked.



Andy looked at her.
For the first time not as part of his past.
But as something that would disappear.
And precisely because of that, it mattered.
He lifted his wrist.
23.4 years.
“I think…” he said slowly,
“I really want to keep it.”
Biggi smiled.
Not perfect. Not eternal.

But real.


 

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