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Mara's stories deepened. Years ago, in a different city, she had helped people find lost things: messages to lovers, forgotten files, the origins of anonymous photographs. She showed him an archive she kept on a thumb drive—screenshots of feeds she'd glimpsed, small confessions, objects people had thought private. Not all of it was malicious; sometimes people filmed themselves making soup and then never looked at the footage again. Sometimes, she said, cameras were prayers: a way to confirm existence in a world that forgets.

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That rhythm spooled into everything. He started hearing it in the hiss of the kettle, in the neighbor's old radiator. The taps mapped to letters—Morse with the subtlety of poetry: S-E-C-R-E-T—Secret. He hadn't chosen a good password after all. It had chosen him back. Mara's stories deepened

: Misconfigured servers that broadcast live feeds to the public internet without a password. Not all of it was malicious; sometimes people