It’s a quiet ritual, really. The metal fades, the circuits rust, but the data—those tiny whispers of ones and zeros—linger like ink on parchment. When a server goes silent, its memory is copied, copied, copied until it’s on a different chip or in the cloud. So the echo survives, even if the original body is dust. It feels almost like a library of ghosts, each file a stubborn candle flame in a storm of decay. I find that paradox comforting—our stories outlive our shells, just waiting for the next curious mind to discover them.