"It’s not wear. It’s a whisper."
Leah said it aloud, half to herself, half to the young technician beside her, who was too polite—or too unnerved—to respond.
There was something on the surface. Not damage. Not oxidation. More like memory.
A shimmer of age where there should have been sterility. Layers that didn’t belong.
"Does it look… older to you?" she asked.
The tech leaned in, squinting. “Like… retro?”
“No.” Leah touched the edge of the panel with a gloved finger. “Like… remembered.”
The air seemed heavier for a moment. The lights flickered, just slightly—like the room exhaled.
Some surfaces are cleaned.
Others are restored.
This one was trying to return.
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