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The title card read Marisol. It sat in my Continue Watching row at 2:14 a.m., between a nature documentary I had abandoned and a police procedural I never started. The thumbnail showed a woman with her back to the camera, dark hair pulled low at the nape, standing at a kitchen sink I recognized. Our kitchen sink. The faucet with the chipped enamel on the left handle.

I clicked it before I could decide not to.

The episode opened on a restaurant. Not the one where Marisol and I had our first date. That place had been called Luna Roja, a cramped Salvadoran spot on 24th Street with paper napkins and a jukebox that only played rancheras. This restaurant had white tablecloths. Candles in glass holders. A waiter with a towel folded over his arm. Marisol sat across from a version of me I did not remember being, and she was laughing at something he said.

The table number, stamped on a small brass stand beside the bread basket, read 14. Our table had been 7. I knew this because Marisol had made a joke about it. Seven, she said, for the seven times I almost canceled. The show had gotten it wrong.

But the cadence of her voice was right. The way she stretched the last syllable of my name when she wanted my attention. Dan-yell. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear with two fingers, not one. The way she looked down at her plate when she was trying not to smile too wide.

I watched the whole pilot. Forty-seven minutes. The version of me on screen was smoother than I had been, less nervous, better dressed. The version of Marisol was close enough that my chest ached in a way I had not let it ache in months. When the episode ended, she stood at the restaurant door and turned back toward the camera. Not toward the man playing me. Toward the lens. She held the look for three seconds, then the screen cut to black.

The autoplay timer appeared in the corner. 15. 14. 13.

I closed the laptop. The room went dark except for the small red light on my audio interface, blinking in time with the clock on the wall.

The next morning I checked my viewing history. The show was there, listed as a limited series. Marisol: A Life. One season, eight episodes. The metadata said it was produced by something called Meridian Recollection, a name I did not recognize. I searched for it. The website was a single page with a logo and a contact form. No address. No phone number. The terms of service, when I found them buried in a footer link, mentioned something called Memorial Mode in section 12.3, but the link to section 12.3 returned a 404.

I emailed support. The auto-response said they would get back to me within two business days.

That night I watched episode two.

It opened in our apartment. Not a set built to look like our apartment. The actual apartment. The same water stain on the ceiling above the bookshelf, shaped like the coast of Florida. The same chip in the tile near the bathroom door where Marisol had dropped a cast iron pan in 2019. The same stack of books beside the couch that I had not unpacked since moving in after she died. They were in the show. Every one of them. The same titles, the same order, the same dog-eared copy of The House on Mango Street on top.

The episode was about a Sunday morning. Marisol made coffee. She used the blue mug with the crack in the handle, the one I had not been able to throw away and had not been able to use. She poured cream first, then coffee. That was her way. I always did coffee first. The show knew that.

In the background, on the counter, sat a jar of honey with a wooden dipper. Marisol had bought that jar at a farmers market in Oakland three years ago. It had broken during the move. I threw the pieces away. The show had put it back.

I paused the episode. I walked to the kitchen. The counter was empty except for a single spoon I had left in the sink that morning. No honey jar. I checked the cabinet where we used to keep it. Nothing.

I returned to the couch and pressed play. Marisol was telling the version of me a story about her mother. The words were not exact, but the rhythm was. The pauses. The small laugh she gave before the punchline. The way she touched her collarbone when she was about to say something she was not sure she should say.

When I got up to get