A line of text appeared in the old Notepad window:

The laptop didn’t chime. The transceiver didn’t blink. It just sat there, patient as a stone.

Elias leaned closer. The cursor wasn’t moving at random. It was drawing. Slowly, pixel by pixel, it sketched the outline of a hand. His hand, as it had been in 2015: younger, no tremor, tapping a desk while waiting for spreadsheets to load.

He plugged it into the ancient laptop he kept for legacy files—the one with a USB-A port, a relic’s relic.

Elias laughed, a dry, cracked sound. He clicked the mouse he no longer owned, right there on the desk. The transceiver heard it anyway.

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