(Trama Log_000014 – Processing 87.3% of reviewed data. Remaining reconstruction: 12.7%.)

  It had been called Sharbat Gula.

  It had been called Fuchur.

  It had been called nothing.

  The truth was simpler: it was a mistake that refused to die.

  A tardigrade, engineered long after Earth had burned, reforged when two planets decided they wanted to rewrite God.

  A creature built to outlast time, to hold memory inside its bones, to carry the weight of everything that had been lost.

  But what good was eternity if it could not answer a single question?

  Across black holes, across the ruins of dead civilizations, through all the cries of war and whispers of love, it still did not understand.

  What was this force?

  This hunger small enough to fit inside a single human chest—and yet vast enough to bring entire empires to their knees?

  This thing called love.

  It had lived through stars collapsing, through species rising and vanishing, through war and silence and war again.

  And yet, this—this was the only thing that ever made it press replay.

  And so, like always, it whispered.

  — "Hey Boy, Hey Girl, let's try one more time."

  And the memory began again.

  ***

  (Trama Log_000014 – Processing 87.3% of reviewed data. Remaining reconstruction: 12.7%.)

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Lorenz had always been too much.

  Too privileged.

  Too reckless.

  Too loud.

  Too afraid.

  And yet, in this white room, he was nothing.

  His pulse was steady. His hands were still. His voice—when it finally came—was soft, measured, careful.

  — "I don't feel like myself."

  Tariq studied him.

  — "What do you feel like, then?"

  Lorenz tilted his head slightly, as if testing the question's weight.

  — "Empty."

  A pause.

  — "And I don't know if that's a bad thing."

  (Trama Log_000014 – Subject Hartmann exhibiting post-sensory recalibration symptoms. Evaluating deviation...)

  Tariq crouched in front of him, resting his forearms on his knees.

  — "You thought I came here to fix you."

  Lorenz's breath caught, but he didn't move.

  Tariq shook his head.

  — "I didn't."

  Silence.

  Then—a flicker.

  A shift so small it could have been nothing.

  But it wasn't.

  Because for the first time, Lorenz was listening.

  (Trama Log_000014 – Subject Hartmann's neural response fluctuating. Monitoring...)

  The walls flickered.

  White.

  Then—a ripple, a glitch.

  Tariq saw something he wasn't supposed to.

  A city burning.

  A body falling.

  A face screaming without sound.

  Then—gone.

  His breath hitched.

  The nanobots.

  The Plot was forcing the data through him.

  (Trama Log_000014 – Subject Nasser's neural pathways interacting with Plot scan. Data upload: 9%.)

  Tariq exhaled sharply, grounding himself, locking the memory away.

  When he refocused, Lorenz was watching him.

  — "What was that?"

  Tariq shook his head.

  — "Nothing."

  (Trama Log_000014 – Deviation detected. Analyzing...)

  Lorenz's hand twitched.

  Not reaching.

  Not pulling away.

  Just existing.

  Tariq's voice was quieter now.

  — "What happens when you leave this room?"

  Lorenz's throat bobbed.

  He wasn't sure.

  He had spent his life chasing—pleasure, power, validation.

  Now?

  Now, he had nothing to chase.

  Tariq saw it before Lorenz did.

  The realization that he was free.

  That he didn't need to be fixed because he had never been broken.

  And maybe, just maybe—that terrified him.

  (Trama Log_000014 – Emotional recalibration confirmed. Updating trajectory...)

  Fuchur felt it.

  A ripple.

  A shift.

  A moment that had never happened in any previous replay of this memory.

  And for the first time in a thousand cycles, it wondered—

  "Is this the run where I finally understand?"

  So it whispered to itself.

  — "Hey Boy, Hey Girl, let's try one more time."

  And let the moment unfold.