I brought my husband back for his funeral as a hologram

When Pam Cronrath's husband Bill died last year, after nearly 60 years of marriage, she knew what she wanted to do, but not exactly how.

"I promised him a super wake," she told the BBC.

What she didn't expect was that keeping the promise would lead her into the world of holograms, technology more commonly associated with celebrities than memorial services in rural America.

Pam, 78, lives in Wenatchee, Washington, an agricultural community on the eastern edge of the Cascade Mountains.

A self-confessed tech enthusiast, she says her outlook was shaped by a career that stretched back to the early days of the internet.

Several years ago, while speaking at a medical conference, she watched a doctor appear as a full-body hologram broadcast live across the United States.

"I was completely impressed," she said. "It stayed with me."

After Bill died, the memory returned. Pam began wondering whether the same technology could be used for remembrance.

Finding help was challenging. Pam wanted to act quickly, but many companies she contacted were either too expensive or not interested.

Eventually, she was put in touch with Proto Hologram and Hyperreal, two companies which work with hologram and avatar technology. Pam told them about her concerns.

"When you hear they're working with Michael Jackson's estate, and then it's me - Pam from Wenatchee - you do wonder how it's going to work," she said.

She had promised Bill she would spend $2,000 (£1,480) on his "super wake", but the figure quickly escalated as the work became more ambitious.

Pam said the final sum was probably "at least 10 to 15 times" her original plan.

"But I still think [Bill] would be very much inspired by all of this, and thankful that it happened," she said.

In recent years, several technologies have emerged that allow people to appear to speak after death, by recording answers to questions in advance, with software later selecting the most relevant clips to respond.

Hyperreal's founder, Remington Scott, says his company's approach is different.

"Those systems are meaningful, but they're constructed," he said. "They're selecting from pre-recorded material or generating an approximation."

Scott said what his company does is "comprehensive capture - likeness, voice, motion, performance - to create... something people who knew the person recognise immediately".

For Pam's project, because Bill had already died, there could be no live recordings.

Instead, Pam would write the script herself, drawing on six decades of shared life.

"I knew him for 60 years, so I wrote it the way I believed he would speak."

The most challenging part, Pam says, was the voice.

Bill was a quiet, reserved man, and there were few recent recordings of him. Older audio sounded stronger; later recordings reflected his poorer health.

Engineers worked to find a balance, something family members would recognise, even if it wasn't perfect.

At the memorial service, around 200 people gathered. Most had no idea what was coming.

When Bill's hologram appeared, life-size and from the waist up, on a screen and speaking directly to the room, the reaction was immediate.

"Now, before anyone gets confused, I'm not actually here in Valhalla today," explained the hologram of Bill. "Is this going to be fun?"

"People were aghast," Pam said. "Some genuinely couldn't understand how it was happening."

The hologram did not just deliver a prepared speech. It also took part in a staged Q&A, with Bill's nephew acting as host.

The hologram even joked how marrying Pam despite his nerves had been the "best decision I ever didn't make".

Several attendees believed the exchange was happening live.

One of Pam's sons noticed only one small detail. "His voice is just a little bit off," he said. For Pam, that reaction confirmed how close they had come to getting the likeness perfect.

Pam is careful to stress that the hologram has not replaced her husband nor her grief.

"It's like looking at photos, or old videos. It doesn't get boring," she said. "When you're hurting, it helps to feel like that person is still right there with you."

Seven months on, she still watches the recording. One moment, in particular, stays with her - when the hologram says, "I love you."

"That means a lot to me," she reflected.

Scott believes the Cronrath project stood out because it was entirely family-led.

"Pam initiated it. The family was involved at every step," he said.

"What we created was something they could return to - not once, but for generations," he added.

"It's closer to commissioning a portrait or a memoir than anything else."

He is keen to stress that the company does not see its work as replacing the dead.

"We don't think of this as grief tech. It's about digital human performance, and the standard of craft has to be extremely high."

Experts point to ethical concerns with such technology - including exploitation of grieving people, consent and our ability to deal with difficult emotions.

There is a risk "it positions grief as a problem to be solved, and furthermore as a problem with a technological solution," said Dr Elaine Kasket, cyberpsychologist and visiting professor at the Centre for Death and Society at Bath University.

"If an individual griever wishes to use digital remains to remember their loved one, that is their grief, and we should not question or criticise other people's needs and preferences in mourning," she added.

"The problem today, in my view, is the platformisation of grief - datafying our dead, commodifying them, curating their presence in our lives, and making mourners financially and psychologically dependent upon the platforms that reanimate and house them."

These practices "call for a degree of caution - particularly in recognising how grief and longing can make people vulnerable," according to Dr Jennifer Cearns, of the Centre for Digital Trust and Society at Manchester University.

"What matters, then, is how these technologies are used - as forms of memorialisation rather than replacement, and ideally with the consent of the person whose likeness or data is being mobilised."

Pam understands the idea of a hologram of a deceased loved one may feel unsettling to some. For her, it was never about spectacle or novelty.

"It was about Bill," she said. "About honouring his humour, his kindness, and the way he made people feel."

As technology continues to reshape how we communicate, Pam's story raises difficult questions not just about what is possible, but about what feels right.

For her, the answer was simple.

"It's part of our life story," she said. "Bill and Pam."