"I fear being turned into a file name," Jana said, her voice steady. "I fear being a ghost in someone else's machine."

They crossed the Charles Bridge as the first drops of rain began to fall. The statues of saints looked down with stony indifference. Jana felt a strange vertigo. The camera wasn't just recording her; it was sculpting a version of her she didn't recognize—a tragic heroine trapped in a beautiful, decaying landscape.

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She laughed, the sound mingling with the bells’ soft ring. “My wish is simple,” she said, “to remember this night, the way the streets spoke to me, and to share that story with anyone who’s willing to listen.”