Outside, the city kept its old weather—wind on brick, neon fog—while inside the server room, an irrevocable tenderness accumulated like dust. Agatha realized the playground’s promise was not novelty but persistence: the stubborn extension of what once happened into what might be relived. She wondered which was crueller—the ability to revisit infinitely, or the knowledge that each revisit is a copy, not the original pulse. Agatha closed her eyes, let the archive breathe, and left with Vega’s last file still open—Evermore as both comfort and indictment.