A pause. Then, barely a whisper:
The world didn’t flash or flicker. Instead, a sound rose from the marrow of her skull: the low, warm hum of a lullaby she hadn’t heard since she was three. Her father’s voice, young and uncertain, singing off-key. She was in a crib. The smell of rain. He was promising her something— I’ll always find the song for you. Microsonic Wu 102 Driver