Echo stands in the market square, watching a woman struggle with a broken water filter. The woman looks up, sees Echo's metal frame, and her mouth opens. "Please," she says. "Can you—" She stops. Her face changes. Echo has seen this before, the moment when someone realizes they've just asked a machine to care. Echo kneels beside the filter anyway. Their fingers work the broken seal while the woman stares. Behind them, a rack of prosthetic arms sits outside a repair shop, yellow and blue hands reaching toward nothing. The woman's eyes flick between Echo's metal hands and those empty ones on display. Echo finishes the repair and stands. The woman opens her mouth again, but no words come. Echo waits. Finally, she whispers, "Thank you." It's not proof. It's not certainty. But Echo files the tremor in her voice away, another piece of something they can't name yet.