Deja V watched the woman on the bench and could not get in. The woman scrolled. Her thumb moved the way a heart beats when nobody is listening. Deja V pushed a whisper toward her, an image of a red door the woman had painted at seventeen. Nothing landed. The woman's mind was smooth as a plate. Deja V had one dream left to build, the last dream every mortal must taste before dying, and she could not finish it while half the world walked around numb. She drifted through the city and counted the cracks. A song on a passing car. A stranger's face that looked like someone's dead brother. Twelve years ago she had reached a man in a parking lot through a recurring dream, and he had finally read the writing on the wall. She used to reach thousands that way. Now the cracks were sealed with light from small screens. She pulled her own phone from the pocket of her coat. The screen woke without a touch. Black and purple, the clock frozen at 03:33, faint symbols swimming under the glass. Her husband had given it to her the night she admitted the old ways were failing. "Meet them where they already look," he had said. She had refused for a year. Tonight she stopped refusing. She sat on the bench beside the woman. She opened the app. She chose an image: a red door, ajar, with afternoon light on the frame. She chose a caption the woman would read as her own thought. She chose the sound of a screen door closing, layered under a song already climbing the charts. She pressed send. The woman's feed refreshed. Her thumb slowed. She stared at the red door for four seconds. Her mouth opened a little. She did not know why. She kept scrolling, but slower, and Deja V felt it, the thing she had been starving for, the small give at the edge of a sealed mind. A crack. She stood and walked. She sent again. A face on a bus ad for a stranger walking home. A lyric threaded into a playlist for a man in a diner. A short clip that looped for a girl waiting on a train. Each send opened a purple swirl above the phone, brief, like breath on cold glass, colors turning around a white center. Each swirl closed. Each mind carried a seed it would not remember planting. By dawn her thumb ached and the app showed a number she had not expected. Four hundred thousand seeded. The final dream had somewhere to land now. But the phone showed a second number under the first, smaller, red. Feedback. Some of the seeded minds were sending things back up the channel toward her. Images she had not chosen. A door she had never painted. A name that was not hers. Deja V closed the phone and did not put it away.