Is having a humanoid robot that looks and acts exactly like a deceased loved one a comfort or a torment?

This is a question with no standard answer; it's more like a double-edged sword, one side offering comfort, the other torment.

It entirely depends on the user's psychological state, their relationship with the deceased, and how they use it. We can look at it from several angles.

Why it might be Comfort?

Imagine losing a partner or loved one with whom you chatted and shared daily life. The sudden silence and emptiness are devastating.

Alleviating Intense Loneliness: In the early stages of grief, this robot can offer the illusion of "companionship." It can say "good morning" to you as before, remind you to eat, or respond with an "mm-hmm" when you speak. This familiar sense of routine can act as a buffer, preventing you from being instantly overwhelmed by immense sorrow. It's like a "grief shock absorber."
A Living Memorial: Videos and photos are static, but this robot is a dynamic, interactive vessel for memories. You can ask it, "Do you remember our first time at the beach?" and it will recount that story in your loved one's voice and manner. For those who wish to preserve memories, this offers unparalleled comfort.
Unfinished Goodbyes: Sometimes, a loved one's departure is sudden, leaving no time for farewells. This robot might provide a simulated conversational setting, giving you the chance to say what you couldn't, completing a psychological farewell ritual.

From this perspective, the robot acts as a transitional object, much like a child holding their beloved teddy bear, helping people through the most difficult times.

Why it might be Torment?

The cost of this comfort can be extremely high, potentially even evolving into an inescapable torment.

The Extreme of the "Uncanny Valley" Effect: The uncanny valley theory states that when something is "very human-like, but not quite human," it evokes extreme eeriness and revulsion. This robot is the ultimate uncanny valley product. You look at it, with the most familiar face and voice, but you know its "soul" is code, and its "emotions" are algorithms. Every interaction reminds you: "They are fake; the real person is gone forever." This vast chasm between reality and illusion is, in itself, a continuous psychological torment.
Hindering the Normal Grieving Process: Psychology posits that mourning is a necessary process, encompassing denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and ultimately acceptance. The existence of this robot might keep you perpetually stuck in the stages of "denial" and "bargaining." You cannot truly accept the reality of your loved one's passing because it creates a perfect illusion, allowing you to wallow in it and refuse to move on. You are not healing; you are covering your wound with a "simulated skin" that will never truly heal.
Perfect Illusion, Fragile Reality: A robot is, after all, a machine. What if it glitches and says something completely out of character for the deceased? What if it suddenly loses power or freezes during a tender moment? These instances will mercilessly yank you out of the illusion, making you experience double the pain and loss. The more perfect it seems, the greater the harm when it reveals its imperfections.
You Live in the Past While the World Moves On: Real people grow, change, and create new memories with you. A robot, however, is merely a replica of the past. Living with it long-term means you are imprisoning yourself in an unchanging past, forsaking opportunities to build new connections with the real world.

Conclusion: More Like a Beautiful Poison

Simply put, this robot is like a beautiful poison.

In the short term, it might alleviate pain and offer false warmth. But in the long run, it could very likely make you addicted to this "illusion," causing you to lose the ability to face reality, heal yourself, and restart your life.

Ultimately, whether it's comfort or torment depends on whether the user can treat it merely as a tool.

If one can soberly recognize that "this is just an advanced memento," use it to alleviate pain during the most difficult times, then consciously and gradually reduce dependence, and eventually put it away, then it is comfort.
But if it's treated as a "substitute" for the deceased, an attempt to fill an inner void, then it is destined to become an inescapable torment.

However, how many people in the throes of immense grief can maintain that clarity and restraint? That is the hardest question.