The compass ticked once as I crossed the last bridge. The boy’s voice threaded through the memory-lattice like a patch note: "Questions keep us uncompiled."

He blinked slowly, as if processing the question: "All citizens are non-player entities, traveler. Your journey will be meaningful."

"I recall—" I started, then realized I had no memory of such a thing except the one I carried from before Nome: a single image from a childhood trip, a horizon of too many blues. The woman’s face shivered at my hesitation. She closed her eyes as if to protect herself from a sun that no longer rose.