I found myself again.
Not a mirror. Not a hallucination. A second me, standing still in the corridor, wearing the same suit, the same insignia, the same slight crack in the visor.
It looked at me. Said nothing.
Then turned and walked away.
I followed it.
Every step it took, I remembered taking. Every word it whispered—"I am not me"—echoed in my mind like a forgotten prayer.
I tried to touch it. My hand passed through.
Then it turned and smiled. My smile. But empty.
I stumbled back. When I looked again, it was gone.
Back on the ship, I watched my log footage.
There I was, standing in front of the camera, twelve hours ago. Smiling.
"I'm the copy now," it said. "You just don't know it yet."