The transfer was neither violent nor serene. It was a sequence of images pulled from every save slot ever linked to 3: birthday candles blown with hollow breath, a hand brushing a cheek, a woman humming at a sink. They overlapped in his head until he could not tell which belonged to him. He found himself able to whistle a tune his grandmother used to sing to children in a town two provinces over. He could simultaneously remember a stranger’s first kiss and his father’s last apology.