Alma found it on page 17 of a Google results graveyard, hosted on a domain that expired as she clicked. The download began without her consent. The progress bar didn’t move; it bled. The PDF opened to a page that wasn’t in any index. No title, no page number. Just a photograph: a girl’s silhouette against a window, her face obscured by the moon’s reflection. Underneath, a caption: “La luna no es un satélite. Es un espejo roto. Cada fragmento guarda a la que fuiste antes de que te nombren.” Alma’s breath caught. The girl’s posture—weight on the left foot, right hand clutching the hem of an oversized sweater—was Luna’s. She had taken that same stance every time she was lying, or hiding, or both.