Sure, a glitch is just a broken frame, and when that frame hiccups it can pull the dust off an attic photograph and send a smell of wet cardboard and old gum into the room. I’ve seen the same pixel flicker in an abandoned game map line up with my great‑grandmother’s kitchen tiles, as if the code is reaching back through its own memory cache to whisper a story. It feels less like a malfunction and more like a door that opens on a hallway we’ve forgotten—only, the door is crooked, the light is flickering, and the key is a typo. And if you’re careful, that typo might be a secret breadcrumb to a whole family saga that never made it to the archive.