She strapped the headset on. The ocean above was calm; beneath, the Array had woken. At 01:56:23 the screen unspooled a lattice of light and a voice, impossible and intimate, threaded through static: "We remembered you."

Mara closed her eyes and let the code translate itself into memory. A city that had never been built, a language that had never been spoken, faces of people who had never met. The Array stitched histories together—lost songs, the smell of rain on synthetic soil, a child’s laughter that was also firmware.

When the transmission ended, only the timestamp remained, glowing: 015623. Not a time, she realized, but a passport. She pressed SEND.

The reply was immediate. The ocean hummed, and somewhere, something that had been waiting for an answer smiled.