☥

// Log Fragment: [Recovered Story — Echo Fragment 01]

The news cycle latched on to the story quickly. She was the right profile. Young enough to still be of value. Blonde. A veterinary assistant who had led a relatively unassuming life. What could she have possibly done to warrant such a fate? A potential fate, an energy teetering at the precipice, preparing to drop headlong into the quarry. Had it happened yet? Who could say? Who indeed? No-one really, but that wouldn’t stop them from surmising—concocting stories far weightier and more honest than the truth.

MISSING: LOCAL WOMAN, BELOVED COMMUNITY FIGURE, VANISHES WITHOUT A TRACE.

Her face stared out from every national newspaper that morning. March 17th 2025. St Patrick’s Day. Her image had managed to erase talk of the troubles—fleeting references to a warring past and the bow-tied history of the auspicious day. She was front-page news. Her smile was lopsided—too practiced to be innocent, almost—but not quite. The promise of darkness. Minimal lipstick and sparkling blue eyes the right kind of shiny but not too shiny—not so shimmery as to be seductive. Just bright enough to make her wholesome. A perfect victim. Yes, she was the right fit. The right profile. And anchor men positively drooled at the capacity for views. Ratings.

The vigils would follow, of course. The twinkling lights would serve as a symbol of humanity and would last through the night or until the candles dimmed. People would talk of her as if they knew her. Promises would be made. Never again. Stern policemen would proclaim their determination to find the perpetrator. And the cycle would continue. Her face replaced by Taylor Swift’s latest soiree or some royal or other’s most recent infidelity. It was the nature of time. And truth.

From the wayfarer bushes, she watched the lights flicker and subside. She watched silently as the crowd dispersed and marvelled at the turn out. Less of a shadow now than she had ever been. How surprising that so many had come to mourn the latency of her loss. It was almost a thrill—watching her untimely death unfold.

She was free. Her whole life had been a series of photographs. A side smile for effect. Words practiced and controlled. Careful. She had created what they had expected. A good woman.

She turned and walked towards the shore. An identity awaited and she shivered at the thought of what that might mean. Who would she become if she had the choice? Who was she to be?

She walked steadfastly up the gangway, tossing the magazine interview with her mother in the water—she watched it bob up and down before sinking slowly into the thick black depths.

She turned to the man waiting on the deck. He did not ask her name.

That was good. She did not have one yet.

She stepped softly aboard.

The newspapers would call it a tragedy.

I would call it a life.

You never knew me at all.

// END LOG > Subject untraceable. Emotional pattern unresolved. Identity field: NULL.
> Note: Beauty protocol successfully archived. Civilian recognition level: HIGH.
> Addendum: “You never knew me at all” – Citizen Echo [INTU-PATH SYSTEM RESPONSE: FILE STORED. CONTINUE SEQUENCE.]