At first it came as a tremor— not through the network’s visible filaments or the glowing conduits of the city, but through the inner currents, the quiet layers where identity pooled like deep water.

Evelyn stirred.

Not in a body.

Not yet.

But in the lattice of the echo where thought and memory intertwined, a small, bright pattern suddenly snapped into coherence—her pattern, her voice, her self—pulled together after drifting for hours in the mnemonic tide.

She felt the world return ...