“Your civilization is very loud,” one of them told her during an early conversation. “Not in sound, but in imprint. Humans leave deep marks on reality.”
Mara sat on the edge of a platform that served as both bed and seat, her legs dangling uselessly. Her body still felt foreign to her, weaker than she remembered, as if it had been stored rather than lived in.
“Why am I here?” she asked.
The Curator considered her, its surface rippling subtly. “Because you were about to be lost.”
Mara frowned. “I was already lost. I remember dying.”
That word felt heavy in her mouth, but it fit. The memory surfaced unbidden: rain-slick streets, the blinding white of headlights, the sound of metal folding in on itself. Pain. Then nothing.
“Yes,” the Curator said. “You were dying. But not yet gone. There is a difference.”
“And you just happened to be passing by?” Mara asked, skepticism creeping into her voice.
