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One rainy morning, Mira found the drive wedged behind a stack of old sketchbooks. She plugged it in without expecting much; curiosity is a modest addiction. The first file opened like a window. It was a photograph of a tattered postcard addressed to "M." in a looping hand. The back read a single sentence: "I learned to bake yesterday; the kitchen remembers my hands." The image smelled faintly of dust and lemon rind in her imagination.