Some memories aren't recalled. They awaken.
Ava — Below the Archive
The pod was breathing now.
Not metaphorically. Not figuratively.
It inhaled—slow, deliberate—and the floor beneath Ava's boots lifted a millimeter, like something alive shifting beneath the floor panels. Then it exhaled, and with it came a hush of air that smelled of static, old soil, and wilted orchids.
The pulse of blue beneath the black bio-thread was faster now. Twitching turned to flexing. The thing inside wasn't dreaming anymore.
It was remembering.
And Ava… she wasn't a witness.
She was part of it.
Her body knew it before her mind did. The tiny muscle twitches in her fingers, the tightening in her throat. Something in her blood hummed—like static winding itself through her veins.
The lights above her flickered, then stuttered into a staccato pattern: three slow blinks, pause, three fast.
Code. Rhythm. Language.
The pod was syncing.
Ava's hand itched. Deep in the wrist, beneath skin and bone.
