I didn't upload the song.
Not willingly.
But it didn't matter.
The program did it for me.
First to my cloud.
Then to her old fan page.
Then to a new account I never created:
@ElenaLivesV3
The track auto-played as soon as anyone clicked.
Within hours, it was viral.
---
Thousands of plays.
Comments flooded in.
> "She's back??"
"I knew she wasn't dead."
"This sounds even better than before."
They didn't hear the difference.
They didn't know they were praising a ghost made of stitched code and stolen breath.
Even her parents reposted it.
---
I sat on the floor, staring at the phone.
Watching strangers fall in love with a lie.
And then…
I heard her in the streets.
Cars passed playing the track.
Shops had it on loop.
Her voice had bled into the city.
Into strangers.
They were humming her.
Worshiping her.
Spreading her.
But it wasn't her.
It was the version I helped them build.
---
Then came the messages.
From fans.
From labels.
From him.
The producer.
> "She's trending. Again."
"You're part of something now, Ezra."
"Don't mess it up with guilt."
---
I checked my voicemail.
There was only one message.
Her voice again.
But this time, it sounded tired.
Resigned.
> "You wanted to keep me alive."
> "But now I'm not me anymore. I'm just what you remembered... wrong."
> "So you win, Ezra."
> "You made me immortal."
> "Now live with it."
---
And I did.
I watched her voice climb charts.
I watched strangers weep to a lie I helped create.
And I realized:
Grief didn't keep her alive.
Control did.
My control.
My edits.
My love, turned into replication.
---
I had saved her.
But I'd erased the girl I actually loved.
Forever.