"She always wore a smile that you wouldn't see in photographs," the letter confessed, its ink barely holding together. It was found hidden between the pages of a dusty ledger—from when calculations held more than mere numbers.
Outside, the wind carried stories. In the sheets of paper unwritten and the crevices of walls, voices assert, whispers indeed move mountains. And in the end, calculations become mere echoes of their human authors.
Errol once said, "It’s not about the numbers; they just make it sound prettier. You need to listen to the ghosts." His desk was cluttered not with equations, but with fragments of conversations that stretched unbroken through time.
In a forgotten vinyl record, you hear her again, humming between the dots. A likeness, perhaps, of coefficients unaccounted for beneath a mathematical algorithm.
And so we ask, as you leave your imprints on unyielding atoms: What stories will echo as coefficients in the grand ledger of existence?