Dr. Veronica Strand knelt beside the glowing stream, pressing her palm against the iridescent dome she had spent weeks building. "Ten, nine, eight," she whispered, counting backwards like a weather report. The archive was her last hope. Every morning she woke with fewer pieces of herself, and she needed somewhere to put them before they drifted off like clouds. She stepped inside and began the work. She spoke each fragment aloud into the chamber's listening walls: her mother's name, the smell of rain on hot pavement, the formula for dew point. A small winged creature with shimmering scales fluttered through the open door and landed on her shoulder, watching with huge curious eyes. "I don't know if you'll hold," Veronica told the walls, her cheerful voice cracking. She pricked her finger and pressed a drop into a groove near the door. The dome pulsed once, twice, then steadied into a soft hum. Outside, the colored water brightened, as if answering. She stumbled out at dusk, exhausted but smiling. The archive glowed behind her, holding pieces of Veronica that Veronica herself could no longer reach. It worked. But as she turned to walk home, she realized she had already forgotten what she had stored inside.