[ WP ] '' Death Insurance '' is a paid subscription service that brings a loved one back to life for the next 24 hours after their death in order to say goodbye . You awake after your death to discover you were a recipient of a gift subscription from an unknown benefactor .

A lot of people think Lydia is an old woman's name, which I guess is true in a way. You said you had stolen the name from your great-grandmother, a short but feisty woman from Jalisco who still spoke Spanish to everyone and made tortillas by hand. She had died the day before you were born, and your parents named you after her, pushing Grace over to be your middle name. I think about your name as I stand at the counter and show them the certificate I bought long ago. I've always been a worrier, for better and worse. 
 
 I'm sitting here and they're strapping me in, the machine is the shiny type of white that gives off reflections like a funhouse mirror. There's the faint smell of ammonia. 
 
 Do you remember how we first met? They're asking me to recall it. I wish it was something cute like reaching for the same book or being forced to share a table in crowded coffee shop. It was when our apartment building caught fire and we had to huddle across the street as giant flames poured out of the windows and exploded through the roof. I shared a blanket with you and asked you if you had anywhere to stay. We ended up crashing at my cousin's place on Seventh Street and he tried to make a move on you, but you laughed it off. 
 
 They're asking me to remember your scent now. I remember you changed perfumes depending on what time of day it was, sharper scents for the morning and for work, darker perfumes for our dates. 
 
 I've been here for three hours, thinking of you. I'm dreading the final question. 
 
 I remember our road trip to Atlanta, crossing through the Devil's Tail in North Carolina on the way, that crazy winding road that seemed always just a hairpin turn away from killing both of us. You drove the full thing, you promised me I could drive it next time. You wore a pair of $ 1 sunglasses and you had the windows down and the way the air made your hair curl about your face - I swear, I had never seen a more beautiful woman in my entire life. 
 
 I would have given anything to see you again. I guess, in a way, I am giving everything. That's the final price we pay for this machine, you know, I'm thinking these memories for the last time. They need them to recreate you, or at least this clone of you that will only live for 24 hours. When you die, so will all my thoughts of you. There will be a stranger in the photos on my wall, a smiling beautiful brown eyed woman who dreamed of leaving her back office Wall Street job and writing books on disappearing cultures. I'll look at your Cornell hoodie and wonder why I have it, wonder who it belonged to. 
 
 They ask me how you died. It's the last question. Do I give them the scientific answer? That one night a blood vessel burst in your brain and that as I woke up next to you, your eyes were open and pale and you were cold as I grabbed you in my hands? Or do I tell them the truth, that you did n't die alone, but that you took the whole world with you. That every day in New York has been overcast, that May feels like December, and that I'm working 14 hours a day just so I do n't have to go home. 
 
 With that last answer, the first part is over. I wait and listen to the hum of the computer. They take a VR headset and put it over me, I'm in our bedroom, they've recreated it perfectly, down to your collection of books and the large window that provided a view of the brick wall next door. Someone's showering, I can hear humming through the thin walls, I can hear your humming - I can hear your humming. They tell me that this version of you does n't know about your death, that I'm not to mention it. 
 
 I have 24 hours to love you forever.
