Fb.txt -

The cursor on her screen blinked rhythmically, like a beckoning finger. Elara looked at her phone on the desk; a notification popped up for a product she had only just thought about buying.

The file suddenly closed itself. Elara tried to reopen it, but the icon was gone. In its place was a new file, newly created: fb_02.txt . fb.txt

In her world—a world of data recovery and digital archaeology—filenames like that usually meant one of two things: a forgotten list of Facebook passwords from 2009, or a "feedback" log for a program that never made it to market. She double-clicked. The cursor on her screen blinked rhythmically, like