Fragment 47-B

The paper crumbled between her fingers. Ink faded to ghost-marks, but she could still make out pieces:

—creaky old grid— —spectacular failures— —archive knowledge—

She'd found it in the dead phone, screen long dark, battery bloated and split. For some strange reason the device had preserved this final exchange like iridescent insects suspended in amber, the two texting about infrastructure while the infrastructure decayed rapidly around them.

The older voice had seen it coming. Grid failures. Single points breaking. The younger one just kept saying "Huge" like that explained anything.

Both wrong about the timeline. Both right about the end.

She pressed the fragment between book pages—real paper, the kind that lasted. Her grandfather's engineering manuals. Her grandmother's seed catalogues. Proof that people once planned beyond tomorrow.

The archive room smelled of mold and memory. Shelves of rescued texts. Radio manuals. Medical guides. And scattered throughout, these digital ghosts—conversations extracted from dead devices, printed on whatever paper could be found.

Someone had written in the margin: They tried to save it all. The data. The words. The warnings.

She lit the oil lamp. Outside, the wind turbine creaked, generating just enough power for the shortwave radio. Maybe tonight she'd catch another signal. Another survivor with another piece of the before-times.

The paper fragment settled between the pages.

Use AI while you can.

She almost smiled. They had. And AI had archived everything.

Right up until the lights went out.