People come for different reasons. Some trade small secrets for the images; others trade silence. The device streams — not just files but currents of wanting: grief, nostalgia, the itch to belong. Each transfer leaves a residue, a small dusting of other lives on your hands. The town notices when the portable torrent is active. Dogs stop barking. The brass band in the square plays slightly out of tune. Every now and then, someone you thought was gone walks past with the exact laugh you remember, as if the city had coughed up a soundbite from your childhood.