It was there in the way they used tools only when placed directly in hand. In how they admired a mechanism but never asked what sat behind it. In how they turned from closed doors. In how surprise slid off them like water from glass. Their health was obvious: clear skin, easy movement, straight limbs, no sign of hunger. Their speech was simple, but not broken. Their fear had edges. Their curiosity did not.

By the time the sun had shifted west and the paths glowed warm gold, Elias had stopped expecting answers from direct questions. He began to collect smaller facts instead. Doors recognized approach before touch. Food was replenished on a rhythm no one tracked. Waste vanished through slots hidden in bench bases and wall seams. At intervals, a thin tone moved through the gardens, and groups would drift without discussion toward shade, toward meals, toward music, toward rest. They obeyed systems they did not seem to notice.

And one of them kept coming back to him.

Lina first hovered at the edge of every group, never placing herself at his side for long, only letting the current of the day carry her near again and again. She was slight, with a way of looking straight at his face when the others looked past him. When he spoke too fast, she did not smile politely and wander off at once. She tried to follow. He began to save certain questions for her.