Her phone vibrated on the table. A single token had arrived: a photograph of a tiny diner sign, glowing at night. The caption simply said, in the app's own plain font: For your father.

One winter, an entry ran that sent a tremor through the network. It was a long, precise account by a woman whose family had lost a home in a storm. The piece included names, a small sequence of events, and a photograph of a child's shoe half-buried in mud. The memory's tag read: Time-locked — 0 years — Open access.

"Begin what?" Mara muttered. She typed it anyway.