Aria fought for pieces that belonged to her: a first kiss under fluorescent lights, a lesson in soldering a broken radio, a graduation speech she had written in a hand that felt like hers. Sometimes the memories were as clear as glass; sometimes they were muddied, like reflections seen through a rain-streaked window. The transfer wasn't clean—consent couldn't erase Meridian's interference or time's slow abrasion. Yet as fragments settled, an internal map reorganized itself.

Plausible but unconfirmed. Approach with curiosity, not expectation.

"I need something," Aria whispered. "I need RJ01212921."