By morning, the line had deepened into a thought: how many people carry stolen melodies like contraband treasures, keeping them pressed to the ribs of memory? That thought was guilty and tender at the same time. The song wanted permanence; the file’s provenance threatened it. He imagined the film-maker, somewhere, wanting the same permanence but needing payment to keep making more. The contradiction sat in his chest, a small Filmyzilla-sized bruise: an affectionate theft, a devotion borrowed.