The Preservation Index

I signed the waiver because everyone else did. Plus, I needed the money—AI isn’t cheap these days, ya know?

Walking towards the museum, I read the banner stretched across the marble entrance: Grand Opening! The Extinction Museum of the 22nd Century. Beneath it, a smiling attendant hands me a card. Contribution approved. I don’t remember applying.

Inside, the museum is colder than I expected. The first hall, though, is familiar: A bee suspended mid-flight; its wings caught in a permanent shimmer. A coral fragment, bleached to bone. Labels glow beneath, the dates ending in the late 22nd century. I don’t linger. These are losses everyone already knows about.

The second hall is stranger. “Cultural Artifacts,” the sign reads. A cracked smartphone on a pedestal; its screen frozen on a social feed. A pair of noise-cancelling headphones. A stack of printed photographs. I lean closer, trying to remember what it feels like to hold things that don’t require constant updates. “Donations accepted daily,” another sign chimes. “Be part of the future!”

I move on.

By the third hall, I’m unwell. Empty cases hang on the walls, only descriptions adorning them.

Privacy: Lost gradually between 2005–2090.

Silence: Rare by 2160. Extinct by 2282.

Unmediated Attention: Date uncertain.

People stand reading, nodding as if they remember. I’m not sure I do.

Finally, at the end of the corridor, I see the sign: “Personal Contributions.” My card blinks yet again: Contribution approved.

“First time?” the woman in front of me asks. I nod. “It’s quick,” she says, smiling. “Just a sample. Memories, mostly… Makes you feel important, doesn’t it? Leaving behind what we were.”

“Yeah,” I say, though I’m not sure what that means anymore.

The line moves quickly. Soon, I am standing in a small room, empty except for a chair. No attendant this time. Just a soft voice. “Welcome. Please take a seat.”

I sit. “Your contribution has been selected for full preservation. Do you consent?”

I hesitate—then nod. Everyone else did it. How bad can it be? A pause, then—”Thank you. Five hundred dollars have been credited to your account.” The chair tightens around my arms. A cool band slides over my temples. “Please relax. Beginning extraction.”’

At first, I feel nothing. Then, a flicker—my childhood bedroom, sunlight through the curtains. My mother’s voice. The smell of rain. Each memory surfaces, then slips away before I can hold it. “Processing.”

“Wait,” I say. “How long—” No answer. More comes—my first job, fluorescent lights, the drag of time. Faster now, blurring together. “Stop!” I scream. “That’s enough.”

“Extraction incomplete. Full preservation required.” Cold spreads through my chest.

“I thought it was just a sample?”

Nothing. The room dims. I try to move, but the chair holds me.

“Please remain still. You are being archived.” A glass panel slides into place. For a split second, I see my reflection—unfocused, already fading. Beyond it, a label flickers to life.

Homo sapiens, pre-extinction.

Condition: Fully preserved.